Resident Evil: Dead Memories
by Jammer69er
Summary: 3 years after the events of Raccoon City, Dean Travers finds that trying to move on from the events of the T-Virus outbreak isn't as easy as he originally thought. Sequel to The Fall of Raccoon.
1. Chapter 1: The Past and The Present

**Resident Evil: Dead Memories**

A/N: Hello again, fellow residents of . Jammer69er here, bringing you the sequel to 'The Fall of Raccoon'. Some of you may have already read through the previous entry, and if you haven't...then what the hell's wrong with you man? Just kidding. But as this story's going to have a lot of references to TFOR, if you want to have the whole story and be fully clued up on Dean Travers, and the horrors he experienced in Raccoon City, then you might want to give the other story a look over so you're up to speed.

With this particular fanfic, what I want to do with this story is to try and focus more on character development, emotions, and personalities, as I feel as though these were all things I felt I needed to improve on, a feeling backed up by a couple of reviews I received on TFOR. Also, I want to try and make my writing more concise- i.e, focus on shorter chapters, as I know fine well that some of the chapter's in TFOR were far too long compared to some of the other stories I've seen so far on the site. Hopefully I can achieve both of these goals, and hopefully the rest of you will find the same thing as well in your critique.

Anyway, this intro's gone on long enough- let's get this show on the road, shall we?

**Disclaimer: Resident Evil, its associated characters, bodies, etc., are the property of Capcom. Dean Travers, and all other original characters on the other hand, belong to me. **

**Prologue**

_My name is Dean__ Travers. _

_I live in the small town of Riverview in Virginia, just outside of the capital city of Richmond. I was born and raised on my parent's farm, before I moved away from home to try and find my own way rather than following family tradition. _

_I am also one of the few survivors of what used to be Raccoon City, the North American home of Umbrella Incorporate, one of the world's largest and most prestigious pharmaceutical companies, developing the most advanced medical products and equipment over their 40 year history. At least, that's what the company's press releases want you to think. _

_In secret, they were developing Bio-Organic Weapons, monstrous creatures developed through the research of a mutagenic toxin known as the 'T-Virus', in order to see them to the highest bidder for military purposes. They were playing with fire for so long, it was only a matter of time before somebody got burned. In September 1998 Raccoon was hit by a massive outbreak of the T-Virus, which transformed the city's 150,000 strong population into zombies…the walking dead. Creatures I initially only thought lived in the movies and people's worst nightmares._

_As an officer in the Raccoon Police Department__, myself and my best friend Ben Campbell were stuck in the middle, even as our colleagues were eaten alive or killed in other brutal ways by the monsters which stalked from the shadows. I'll never forget that week: row upon row of blank, rotting faces bearing down on us, the stench of putrid flesh closing in, cold fingers reaching out for us-_

_And Ben. Of all the people to die in that place, his death hit me the hardest of all. We had been with each other through all the major events in our life, and I was convinced that we would make it through that together. But he fell at the hands of that damned 'Tyrant' in the secret Umbrella facility, just to save my own life. The ultimate sacrifice…_

_It's been just under 3 years since__ day Raccoon City was wiped off the face of the earth by the nuclear missile intended to 'sterilise' the city, and a lot has happened since then. Umbrella is still operating, but public suspicion against them grows by the day. I am back home, back on my parent's farm, trying to move on. I was even convinced to keep a journal of my general memories and experiences- my doctor told me it would help in the process of moving on._

_But leaving behind my dead memories hasn't been that straightforward…_

_-Excerpt from the journals of Dean Travers, survivor of Raccoon City._

**Chapter 1: The Past and the Present**

_He opened his eyes and sucked in a deep breath._

_He was stood in the middle of an anonymous city street, totally alone. He looked all around him, taking in the details he could see. There were several cars parked alongside the side of the road, abandoned, while none of the lights in the surrounding windows were on, and the cold biting wind blew through the street, nipping at the exposed skin on his arms and face. He turned and walked a few steps, trying to find any sign of life, but he was entirely alone._

_His foot came down on a discarded sheet of newspaper sprawled across the tarmac, and he glanced down curiously, feeling a shiver run up his spine as he read the paper's title, 'The Raccoon Press'. His blood ran cold when he read the massive headline too, next to a small printed picture of a dark silhouette approaching the camera._

_THE DEAD WALK!_

_He almost froze when he heard the very weak moan from somewhere behind him, and he tried to urge his body not to turn, trying to deny what had just materialized in the street with him, wanting to drag him down, tear out his throat and feast on his flesh. But in the end, he just couldn't do it and he felt his head turn swiftly, ready to face the inevitable. _

_Back along the street, he watched a lone figure stagger out into view from behind a parked blue sedan. It was a man in his mid thirties, just under six feet tall, dressed in grey work pants and an orange hi-visibility vest, much like a construction worker, the look completed with a yellow hard hat. But he was more focused on the fact that the man's lower jaw and upper torso were totally smeared in fresh blood, the man's eyes just dull white marbles set into his skull. He let out another weak moan as he dragged his lethargic limbs forwards._

_Then he heard that same hollow sound again, further ahead and to the left, and then from behind him, and once again, to his direct right-_

_He turned as quickly as he could manage, scanning all 360 degrees, only to see even more people slinking out of the shadows towards him; dozens of them. There were men, women and children of both sexes, of various sizes and clothing styles: but they all shared the same shambling gait and dead eyes as the first one._

_He felt his heart beat raise, the adrenaline coursing through his veins, the blood thumping in his ears as the stench of rotting flesh closed in around him, cold scabbed hands reaching for him. A flash and there was a shotgun in his hands, and he swung it to bear, firing off a load of buckshot and throwing several of them backwards, clearing a path for him to slip through. He felt cold fingers brush at his bicep, and he resisted the urge to vomit._

_He sprinted on through the streets, that faded into darkness and then came back into view somewhere completely different, moving from a wide shopping avenue to narrow back alleyways closing in around him, where a massive bug-like creature hacked at him with sickle-like claws, screaming in rage with glowing red eyes, back to regular streets, dotted with countless shambling figures and blazing car wrecks. As he avoided them, he saw other things lunging at of the shadows at him._

_Dogs driven insane and foaming at the mouth. Skinless monsters with wickedly-sharp tongues. Frog-like creatures bearing razor-sharp claws on their hands and feet. A towering, naked brute with its arms replaced by savage claws and a spiked, bony club._

_He fired again at a knot of figures in front of him, and they all tumbled to the ground, no visible wounds on their bodies. He hopped over them and crashed through a steel door ahead of him, stumbling out into a deep black plain of oblivion. He glanced all around, finding himself alone, with even no sign of the door he had entered through. Turning in one direction, he began to slowly walk towards a faint sound in the distance, not even noticing the fact that the shotgun had vanished from his hands._

"_DEAN!"_

_He swung around to face the direction of the shout, somewhere behind him and to the left, his pulse picking up again. He began to jog forwards, and then stopped again as the echo faded away._

"_DEAN, HELP ME!"_

_He turned once more at the desperate voice, much closer this time, and he sprinted full force in the direction of the sound, before he suddenly tripped on something out of sight and fell face-first to the ground, the wind being knocked from him. He quickly rolled onto his back and onto his feet again, as he heard a scream of agony from somewhere ahead of him. A single word burst from his lips._

"_Ben!"_

He gasped a deep lungful of air as he sat bolt upright, the white sweat-dappled sheets tumbling away from his form onto the bedroom floor. He stared dead ahead, at the closed door in the limited light, gasping for air, before pausing briefly to swallow, and then staring down at his hands, swallowing a couple more times. He quickly glanced to his left, out of the partially-opened window, where he could see the branches of a lone tree in the night breeze, reassuring him that he was back in Riverview, and not in that damned empty place.

"God," he whispered, burying his head in his open hands. "Again…why?" He stifled a pained sob, before lowering his hands and looking at the small bedside mirror to his right, examining his tired face and the dark circles around his green eyes, their shine dulled somewhat in the last 3 years.

He heard the creak of a wooden floorboard a few seconds later and glanced up, just as the door was pushed open slightly, giving him clear view of a dark silhouette of a woman's figure, standing in the limited light of the open doorway. There was a long silence before he finally heard the weary, but caring voice.

"Another bad dream?" He just stared for a while, and then finally nodded in reply, rubbing his face once more.

"Hey, least it beats me screaming the walls done, eh?" he laughed dryly, lowering his head, his laughter cutting out abruptly as he swallowed nervously and buried his face in his hands once again. A few seconds later, he felt the fingers on his shoulder, and his body began to convulse, a few pained sobs breaking free from his mouth as he let the sorrow and the pain from the past pour into his soul once more.

"You're not alone," she whispered in his ear. "No matter what happens...you are not alone." Though he was far too busy in his despair to acknowledge the statement, or to offer a reply, even as the hand on his shoulder moved around into a soft embrace.

* * *

><p><strong>June 26<strong>**th**** 2001, 0729 hours**

It was only a few scant hours later that Dean Travers opened his eyes once again, staring at the ceiling above his bed, the faded white wooden boards the same as they had been the previous three years. After what seemed like an age, he glanced to the side, towards the small bedside table and the small digital clock that rested there, seeing the blinking green numbers showed it was 29 minutes past 7 in the morning. A few seconds later, the minutes clicked onto 30, and the clock's alarm began to beep loudly. A half-second later, his hand slapped down, knocking it off.

_Close enough..._

He groaned and tossed his covers aside, revealing that he was wearing little save for a pair of night shorts, before swinging himself over and resting his feet against the floorboards. He ran a hand through his untamed hair and sighed once again, feeling his eyelids droop somewhat, but managing to shake himself awake a little. Though it had been this way for a long time, snatching only a few hours of sleep here and there when he could, he was still not fully used to it, feeling on the verge of fatigue constantly, in danger of burning himself out sooner or later.

He rose to his feet after a few more moments, and crossed towards the wardrobe at the far side of the bedroom, an old-looking piece of furniture that had stood in the same place for as long as he could remember, much like everything else in this house. Almost 3 years ago had been the first time he had set foot on the soil of the old farm estate in 5 years, and the relief he had felt was obvious, considering the nightmare that he had just come from. The warm, familiar sensation of being around his family, as well as the people of the town he had grown up with, was the best medicine from what he had come from.

He threw the wardrobe doors open and retrieved a red and black chequered shirt, a pair of dark blue jeans, and a fresh pair of boxers, before tossing all of them onto the foot of his bed, and turned to look at himself in the full-length mirror, mounted on the wall just opposite the wardrobe, beside the bedroom window.

Dean Travers was a fairly handsome man 28 years of age (almost 29), with short, dark brown hair that was beginning to become in need of a cut sometime soon, several days of stubble marking his chin, his green eyes dulled by the heavy dark bags that had become almost like a permanent addition to his facial features. Ever since that incident 3 years ago...

Back then he had been a member of the Raccoon City police Department, having moved there on suggestion of his oldest friend, Ben Campbell. Though it had taken him some time to find his feet, he soon became used to his work as a law enforcement officer, and he felt as though he had at last found some kind of calling in life, free from his somewhat dead-end frittering and grinding in New York City. And then it had happened.

In September of 1998 Raccoon City was completely decimated by an outbreak of the T-Virus, a mutagenic toxin that had been secretly developed by Umbrella Incorporate, one of the world's leading pharmaceutical corporations, responsible for countless advances in the fields of biochemistry, medical engineering, and half a dozen other biological disciplines. But underneath the facade, they secretly developed Bio Organic Weapons, organisms specifically designed for warfare.

The virus transformed living people into mockeries of their former selves: zombies, flesh-eating living corpses with rotted frames and a bottomless desire to feast upon human flesh, along with other creatures that seemed more at home within a child's worst nightmares. And the R.P.D were on the front lines, wiped out almost to the man, with lone survivors including Dean and Ben stuck in the centre of the necropolis that used to be Raccoon City.

Dean sucked in a deep breath as a memory from the past flashed through his mind: a wall of zombies advancing upon the R.P.D blockade, despite being ripped into by countless weapons. He shook his head and grabbed for his clothes, walking with them into the shower room outside in the corridor.

_It can't touch you anymore, Dean._

He stared intently at his own reflection in the mirror, before he realised that his hand was shaking, and he quickly pulled away, clutching his wrist tightly until the shakes had disappeared. It was yet another symptom of his 'illness' as he called it: aside from the nightmares and the memory flashes, it also manifested as uncontrollable shaking in his hands. He kept it under wraps well for the most part, but there was still the odd moment when he couldn't do anything to disguise it from others. Couldn't disguise his demons for much longer. He shook his head again.

Even Umbrella's own paramilitary organisation, the U.B.C.S, didn't fare well against the impossible odds stacked against them in Raccoon City. But yet a number of survivors from their Delta platoon helped Dean and Ben, and showed them the true extent of Umbrella's corruption and evil. Though the rest of the mercenaries had died during their attempted escape, Dean and Ben continued to push onwards, towards a secret Umbrella storage facility located underneath one of their office buildings- urged on by the hope of finding a cure for the virus that was inside their bodies, and the hope of finding some means of escape.

Deep down, underneath the concrete and steel, they faced their greatest challenge in the form of a Tyrant bio-weapon, one of Umbrella's most advanced B.O.W creations. Featuring incredible strength and endurance, the two R.P.D officers were just about able to destroy the hulking brute, even after it had mutated into something 10 times worse than its initial incarnation. But by the end of the battle, another casualty would be claimed.

Ben Campbell wouldn't live to see his childhood home and family one last time. The wounds he had suffered at the Tyrant's hands were severe, far too severe for Dean to treat with what he had, and his oldest friend would soon pass on, just moments after being airlifted out of the city limits. And he had received those wounds luring the Tyrant away from Dean, taking the fatal damage for his friend.

_My fault- it was my fault that Ben died._

Even after returning home, even after the funeral, even after rebuilding some semblance of a normal life, that guilt still gnawed away at his heart, niggled away at the back of his brain- a constant, mocking presence, threatening to drive him over the edge. He turned away from the mirror and stripped his shorts off, stepping into the shower and twisting the nozzle to douse himself in the piping hot water.

He had learned to take all these luxuries for granted nowadays, when he considered how many people had perished in Raccoon City- so many people who would never know what it was like to be human, even for an instant. And he was one of the lucky few- if 'lucky' was the relevant word- to have been able to return to some semblance of a normal life.

Twenty minutes later he emerged from the shower room, fully clothed and with his hair combed through, though the stubble on his chin remained. He crossed the top landing and descended the stairs, almost running into his sister's back. She turned to face him, eyes wide in delight.

"Oh, Dean!" she said in a bright tone, "good morning." Despite the fact she had walked in on him after his nightmare in the middle of the night, she still sounded as though she had had a full night's sleep. He always wondered what her secret was.

"Morning sis," he smiled as he followed her into the kitchen where he could already smell the coffee being brewed.

His sister, Lisa, was five years his junior, and almost like a female version of him, with dark brown hair and bright green eyes, though she was some inches shorter than him and of a much slighter build. She currently wore old frayed jeans and battered white sneakers, along with a white shirt. Having spent two years on a medical placement at the town's clinic and a further year doing further studies at the university in Richmond, today would be the day she finally started out a proper job as a junior at Richmond General Hospital. All her hard work had finally paid off, he mused, as they both took their seats at the table.

"Good morning!" called their mother cheerily as she finally appeared from the utility room, pouring out some milk into a jug on the wooden table.

"Morning mom," smiled Dean as she then poured out a mug of coffee for him, still piping hot from the kettle. Marie Travers was in her mid fifties now, though her role as a farmer's wife didn't slow her down very much, her blue eyes still holding a slight gleam to them. "So what's on the Travers menu for today?" he then asked, referring to their breakfast.

"Well we've got sausage and bacon left over from when your father ate," she explained, "he's out in the fields right now, helping the farm hands preparing the wheat for planting. You're going to help him out this afternoon, right son?"

"Yeah, yeah," he nodded. "Soon as I've dropped Lisa off and I'm done in town, then I'll come and find him," he explained, as his mother dumped the plate bearing a few sausage links and some bacon in front of him. He smiled a little as he took up his knife and fork and got stuck in. Even though he was approaching his thirties, he still had a taste for mom's home cooking.

He didn't complain. He knew his parents appreciated him being there, helping out on the farm any way he could- it was the least he could do, even after he had walked out initially 7 years ago, refusing to take over from his father, much like had happened for the previous three generations of the Travers family. And he had just come from the nightmare which had been Raccoon City, so of course they had welcomed him back with open arms.

He was glad for the familiarity- his mother's kindness, his father's straightforward and blunt manner, and his sister's cheery nature, the three pillars that made up the basis of his life, the way he saw it. The marked contrast- to not just the madness that had engulfed Raccoon City, but to the somewhat hectic pace of life as a full-time police officer- took some getting used to initially, but it wasn't long until he had settled back into the simple life.

Shortly after breakfast, he had brushed his teeth and stuck his head into his sister's room in time to see her applying her a white cream to her cheeks and forehead- apparently some kind of moisturiser that would keep her skin looking healthy. Whatever it was, he was waiting for her to be ready so he could give her a ride into town for her first day, and then he'd head off to his own appointment for the morning.

"Hey there," he said as he approached the dressing table where she was sat, "you know, you should be careful how much of that you put on- you've read those stories on how direct some of the doctors can be with the juniors."

She laughed as she finished applying her cream. "Oh come on big brother, you know I can take care of myself. It's been a long time since you had to go chasing after my ex-boyfriends." Dean let out a burst of laughter himself.

"I know, I know," he nodded, "but I guess I still can't help being the over-protective big brother...even after all those years I was away."

"I know Dean, some things never change" she replied, "but you need some looking after yourself, you know? I know those nightmares are still getting to you...you're not screaming in your sleep anymore, but I can still see it in your eyes- that haunted look. Don't think I never saw it last night." Dean remained silent for a while longer, until he sidestepped the subject nicely by reaching out and picking up the tub of white cream she'd been using.

"This stuff must be pretty popular, considering how often you use it"-

His words stopped dead in their tracks when he turned it over and saw that all-too familiar red and white octagon imprinted in the top left hand corner of the label, the same logo which had been burned into his mind after that mess three years back. A logo forever associated with the deaths of over 150,000 thousand people.

"Dean," Lisa said suddenly as she snatched it from his hands and put it back down on the dresser. "Look, just don't say anything"-

"You know fine well what I think about anything those bastards make," he replied, anger creeping into his words. "God knows if they're secretly using that to test some new horror they've created." She sighed, knowing not to try and argue with him over this subject, knowing how vocal he was.

"Dean, it's just a cream I use on my skin, and since I've been using it for weeks and nothing bad's happened to me, I'm pretty sure it's safe to use," she responded, as she then stood up and retrieved her bag from the foot of her bed, containing a spare change of clothes and everything else she needed for her first day. "Come on," she then said, walking out of the hall and down the stairs, "I'm ready whenever you are, Mr Taxi!" He remained standing in place for a while longer.

"Yeah, sure," replied Dean, as he took a few more moments to pick up the tub of moisturiser cream and examine it a bit more closely, before dumping it into the wicker wastebasket beside the dresser and walking out after Lisa.

"See you later, mom!" called Dean as he and Lisa prepared to exit out the front door.

"OK, be careful you two!" she called back from the kitchen, and Dean chuckled in response.

"Hey, I'm a big boy now, I'll be fine," he laughed, though it were something of a fake gesture.

_But can I take care of myself? Damn, I feel like I'm about to fall apart here._

* * *

><p>Dean had borrowed his father's pick-up truck while they both went into Richmond- since the farm owner was up at the fields for the first half of the day, it wouldn't have affected him, and his children were free to use it for the time being. The drive into Richmond was fairly quiet, save for Lisa switching on the radio at the half way mark and going through the channels, until she fell upon a news broadcast.<p>

"_...and in other news, another large demonstration has gathered outside of the Virginia HQ of Umbrella __Incorporate, accusing the company of numerous human rights and biological science violations, as well as widespread corruption up to the directorate level."_

Dean was just about able to hide his disgust from the driver's street as he listened to the report. Even after Raccoon City, even after having the blood of its entire population on their hands, Umbrella were still in business. Even with countless demonstrations by every human rights right imaginable outside of their main HQ's, the company continued to operate as though nothing had happened in the first place.

"_In related news, the court case against Umbrella, with regards to the destruction of Raccoon City, continues to rumble on with no discernable end in sight. __Despite the evidence stacked up against the company, of their involvement in supposed biological experiments with human and animal test subjects to create 'Bio Organic Weapons', there remains a solid defence for Umbrella, consisting of numerous high-ranking witnesses and official records contradicting this evidence..."_

"Bastards," was all Dean had to say about this information as he punched the power switch for the radio, leaving them both in silence until he spoke up again. "They've got the blood of all those people on their hands, and they think they can just buy their way out of this mess?"

"Dean, you know that you have to move on," reasoned Lisa.

"And how the hell can I do that when they're still out there, acting as though they did nothing wrong?" he snapped back, before turning his eyes to the road quickly before they ran into the back of the articulated truck in front of them. "I'm sorry, but you know how I feel about that particular subject," he then explained, stumbling over his words somewhat, and his sister continued to give him a concerned look for a while longer, before finally turning to look out the front window instead.

They finished the rest of the journey in silence, as he knew fine well she was in one of those moods where it was best not to try and say anything at all. After all, as his father told him every now and then- there's only two ways of arguing with a woman, and neither one of them worked. Despite her somewhat quiet manner, Lisa Travers had a pretty sharp tongue when it came to the crunch. She had been fairly understanding of his situation since escaping Raccoon City, but still he felt the odd moment of irritation towards him- towards his unwillingness to let the past go, or to not even talk about it in the first place.

_If only it was that easy, sis..._

* * *

><p>Soon enough, they were within the city itself, rolling green countryside and forests giving way to towering skyscrapers, cramped street plans and hundreds of pedestrians and cars crowding the streets. It always reminded Dean of Raccoon City- crowds of faces, both familiar and unfamiliar, pressing in all around him as he walked his beat every day for two years. Except at the time of the outbreak, those crowds were of a much different nature...<p>

He shook his head clear as he realised his mind was wandering again. He pulled the truck into the front parking lot of Richmond General, careful to avoid the already parked ambulance and the paramedics transporting a patient inside. He pulled into a vacant car park space at the far side, and pulled the parking brake on.

"OK, here we are," he announced.

"Thanks for the ride, bro," she smiled as she retrieved her bag and her jacket from the back seat, before turning to face him once again. "And Dean?"

"Yeah sis?"

"Please...please don't just shut me out, OK?" she asked, and he bit his lip in trepidation. "You know I'm here for you always, right?"

"Of course," he nodded with a shaky smile, "now get going. Don't want you to be late on your first big day, right?"

"No, of course not," she responded. "Don't worry about coming back for me- Darcy said he'd give me a ride back into Riverview once we were finished for the day." Dean had only met Darcy the one time, but he seemed decent enough, having been on the same university courses as Lisa had during her medical studies. And now they had both got a place in the same hospital too.

_What are the chances, eh?_

"That's good then," he smiled, as she began to unlatch the door. "OK, see you tonight."

"See you tonight," she replied, as she swung the door shut, and then he stayed long enough to make sure that she had gone inside, before he popped the brake off and began to back out of his space. He had to get to his appointment in the next 20 minutes.

It almost seemed like a regression- going from living in a bustling town back to living in a tiny settlement in the countryside, far removed from a modern urban environment. He was always surrounded by people in Raccoon, and yet in Riverview life was much slower in comparison- he knew most of the people who lived there on a full name basis, and years before he had moved out the first time.

He looked out his window, at the people crowding the sidewalks- a businessman flagging down a taxi, a mother pushing a pram, a bearded newspaper vendor in the process of falling asleep on the spot, a gang of teenagers standing at the corner talking- so many distinct personalities and characters al around, and yet none of them were aware of what this one lone man had been through three years. No-one should have had to endure those horrors- it wasn't something he'd wish on anyone, not even his worst enemy.

_No-one will ever understand__ what's going on inside my head._

He realised that he'd arrived at his destination (it always scared him how quickly time passed when he dwelled on other things), he turned towards the kerb, parking the truck up into the designated parking zone. He popped the parking brake on, before grabbing his jacket from the back seat. It was a green puffer that looked bulkier than other coats he had worn in the past, but it kept him warm, and it had quickly become his favourite jacket. The old denim one that used to be his favourite had been lost in Raccoon City, along with the rest of his old life there. He had a new life now, and he was determined to hold onto it, no matter what.

Once he had donned his coat, he exited the truck, dropped some change into the parking meter (enough for at least an hour and a half), and then he was walking up the street, towards the three-storied, red bricked building on the corner. He was almost there when a young man in his early twenties stepped in front of him, wearing dirty jeans and a sleeveless denim jacket over a black shirt. The look was completed with a red bandanna wrapped around his head and a smug smirk on his face.

_Classic gang banger, _he thought lazily to himself. Having dealt with enough street gangs in Raccoon City, he could spot a classic gang hood from a mile off.

"What do you think you're doing?" the gang banger asked, still smirking. "You gotta pay to pass through here."

"What about all these other people?" asked Dean, glancing to either side of him at the other random citizens who passed by the discussion. "I don't see them paying anything." The young man shrugged.

"We're not talking about them," he stated plainly, "we're talking about _you, _friend. I don't like your face."

"I'm not your friend, _buddy,_" replied Dean, making sure to remain calm at all times. He'd dealt with enough gangs during his tenure in the R.P.D to know the basic etiquette in dealing with random muggers or eager young greenhorns on the streets, trying to initiate themselves by knifing a cop. "And a lot of people like my face, as it happens."

"Don't get sweet with me, smartass," the man replied firmly, taking a step forwards and taking a hold of Dean's jacket sleeve. The former R.P.D cop just glanced down at the gang banger's hand. "You got 5 seconds to pay up, if you know what's good for you."

"And you've got five seconds to let go of me," stated Dean plainly, locking eyes with the gang member as he mentally counted down in his head.

_5...4...3...2...1-_

In a flash, he raised his left arm and thrust it forward, jabbing his index and middle finger into the gang banger's throat, causing the young man to release his grip and let out a choking gasp, but it was quickly forgotten as Dean then thrust his knee into the man's groin, knocking the air from his lungs and causing him to nearly double over.

"Come on, take a seat," muttered Dean as he guided the young man towards a nearby bench and dropped him next to a rather startled-looking businessman who'd been reading the paper at the time. The gang banger was too busy groaning in pain and clutching at his privates to notice anything else as Dean continued on his way as though nothing had ever happened. To be fair, he'd given the guy plenty of warning before he had acted, and he'd plead self defence if anyone in authority questioned him.

_Besides, I'm a former cop- more believable than some random street hood._

He reached his destination (the red-bricked building), before ascending the porch steps outside, pushing into an awfully cramped entrance hall, before immediately ascending the carpeted stairs towards the third floor. Along the way, he passed by a few other people, but he offered them little recognition save for a brief smile. As he continued along his way, he passed by a closed door with a small bronze plaque beside it which read 'Clinton & Son Insurance Brokers'. This building was actually rented out to a number of small businesses, each of them taking up a single floor.

He ignored the sign as he continued up to the third floor, where he came across yet another wooden door, this one complete with a plaque reading 'Monroe Counselling'. He paused at the door for a moment longer, before he finally rapped loudly on the wood.

"Come in."

He pushed through to find himself stood within a rather cosy and well-furnished waiting room, complete with green seats, a coffee table featuring a variety of recent magazines and a number of newspapers with today's date on. He approached the small desk directly opposite the door he had entered through, and offered a smile to the brunette woman sat behind it, well-dressed in a dark navy blazer and skirt suit ensemble.

"Hello, I'm here for my 10:30 appointment with Doctor Monroe?" he asked politely. "Dean Travers," he then added, giving his name. The receptionist nodded.

"Of course," she said. "Please take a seat Mr Travers, Doctor Monroe will be with you shortly." He nodded and murmured his thanks as he went and took a seat at the small table, rubbing his eyes tiredly as he did so.

It wasn't something he enjoyed telling other people about, but he would happily admit it to himself now- yes, he was seeing a Psychiatrist. He couldn't talk to his family about what he had witnessed in Raccoon City, but he certainly had no qualms about discussing his issues with a total stranger.

Author's note: Shock horror- Dean is seeing a psychiatrist! Seriously, if anyone had lived through what happened in Raccoon City I'm sure they'd be seeing a psychiatrist about it, an issue which is almost never touched within the actual games. Just a short chapter to start things off with, just to show Dean's new 'quiet' life, as well as the darkness that's lurking just beyond the surface. The next couple of chapters will be like this- much slower pace, mundane almost, but it will pick up in the future, I promise.

Also I feel this would be a nice moment to quote from Slipknot's 'Dead Memories', one of my favourite songs of recent years and where the story's title is taken from.

Until the next time, R&R please. All feedback is appreciated.

* * *

><p><em>Sitting in the dark I can't forget<em>

_Even now, I realise the time I'll never get_

_Another story of the bitter pills of fate_

_I can't go back again_

_I can't go back again..._

_But__ you asked me to love you and I did_

_Trading my emotion on a contract to commit_

_And when I got away I only go__t so far_

_The other me is dead_

_I hear his voice inside my head..._

_We were never alive_

_And we won't be born again_

_Oh, we will never survive_

_With dead memories in my head.._

**'Dead Memories', Slipknot**


	2. Chapter 2: My World is Getting Smaller

**Chapter 2: My World is Getting Smaller Everyday**

'_It was Doctor Monroe who first suggested that I start writing these journals, as the next stage of my treatment. Despite my misgivings and my feelings towards her, I know that she only means the best for me- she wants to help. But even with the scale of what I witnessed those years ago, I'm sceptical about if she could truly understand what I've been through.'_

**June 26****th****, 1039 hours**

"Dean. Please, come in, take a seat. Sorry to keep you waiting."

"No worries."

Dean had been seeing Doctor Erin Monroe for just over three months now, following something of an intervention by his family and friends, feeling that it would be for the best if he got some professional help. Though he was vehemently against this notion to begin with (he smashed at least one vase during the rather heated debate at the farm house), but in the end he had relented and gone along with them, if only to get them off his case. And while the first few visits were somewhat tense affairs with him refusing to drop his guard, he had soon begun to open up throughout his weekly visits.

"You know, this is starting to feel like my second home," he joked as he settled himself down in the padded leather armchair that he often referred to as the 'crazy chair', a joke that he had quickly dropped after a few uses. There was only silence initially, aside from the scratching of a pen on paper as Doctor Monroe scribbled a few notes before they got started for real.

Erica Monroe was a rather good looking women in her early thirties, her blonde hair tied back and her light green eyes hidden behind the thin black frames of her spectacles, currently wearing a dark blazer and dress pants, completing her professional appearance. Dean would readily admit that she was attractive, but he'd also admit that she was utterly professional and work-focused to a fault.

The room wasn't as fancily decorated as one would imagine, the floor covered with a rather plush peach carpet and the doctor's desk flanked by a pair of glass-fronted bookcases holding dozens of various books and journals on human psychology and other subjects that went right over his head. On the wall behind her desk hung her numerous qualification certificates in display frames, some of them from highly prestigious colleges and universities.

"So Dean," she said finally, as he made himself as comfortable as possible, "how are we today?"

"We are...good, thank you," he replied with a slight nod. "I think it's been a good week."

"That's good to hear," she replied as she scribbled in her notebook.

"My sister started her first day of work at Richmond General just a short while ago," he began, a smile crossing his face. "So many years of hard work and now it's all paying off finally. She hasn't shut up about it ever since she was given the ok. And mom and dad are so proud of her too, finally being able to achieve what she wanted so much."

"That's good," smiled the doctor as she continued to scribble on her pad.

The next few minutes would be spent as he went over what had happened in the last week in between their last meeting, even some of the more insignificant details. Doctor Monroe had taught him that doing this would act as a good opener for when they went onto discussing the more relevant issues afflicting him. He was just finishing off talking about his helping out on the farm, when his face darkened.

"Although I did have another nightmare last night," he then added almost absent-mindedly. "A different one this time." The doctor perked up at this mention, looking up from her notes. He didn't wait for anything from her for him to continue, so he kept on speaking instead.

"I was back in Raccoon City...again. They weren't there one second and then there again the next. All around me, swarming in, pressing around me," he explained. "It was just like how I remembered it. No matter how far or fast I ran, or how many of them I gunned down, I couldn't hold all of them off. I just felt so helpless, useless." The doctor continued scribbling down in her book.

"You say you felt so helpless?" she inquired, leaning in closer, "just like how you felt when you lost your friend?" He bit his lip and seemed to clench up in place. Even after three months worth of sessions, that subject was still a touchy subject. Yet rather than sidestepping the question, he actually offered a limited response.

"It's always the same in these nightmares," he explained, "he's always just somewhere out of sight or reach, and I can't get to him in time, or something's blocking my approach. I just can't save him in time. Just like the first time. Just like always..." Dr. Monroe was quiet for a while as Dean sighed deeply and rubbed his face slowly. He always held it in well, but she knew fine well that he wasn't the person he was inside, not 100%. It would likely be a while longer until he was cured of his doubt and his guilt. Eventually, she leaned forward in her seat and spoke up again.

"Dean, I'd like to try something a little different, if that's OK?"

"Yeah, sure," he replied, somewhat uncertainly. "What did you have in mind?"

"It's a technique that was used by my predecessor," she explained carefully, "it wasn't an accepted practice then, but it's becoming more commonplace now. Basically, it involves putting you into a deep sleep"-

"Like hypnotism?" he asked, somewhat warily. He had a brief vision of himself acting like a chicken after Doctor Monroe snapped her fingers. It faded quickly though, as he knew humour wasn't an inherent quality of these sessions.

"Yes, in a way," she replied, "we do it so that you can relive on of your...episodes."

Dean winced. He knew fine well by 'episode' that she meant 'nightmare'. As in, his nightmares that normally ended up with him screaming at the walls and ceiling. Sometimes they pervaded into his real life, when he was awake, make him lash out at those around him. He shifted in his chair and then finally sighed.

"Sure doc, whatever it takes," he said. She seemed to be somewhat reluctant to take the next step, but she reached for a brass pocket watch on the side table near her seat and held it from its chain, dangling it in front of his face. He could see the initials 'A. M.' etched into the front of the lid.

"OK Dean, I just want you to focus on the watch, no matter what else," she stated, as it began to move back and forward like a pendulum. "Just blot out everything else...sound, light...all of it. So it's just you in the world."

His eyes followed the watch's trail lazily, back and forth in tandem with its motions. As Doctor Monroe had advised him, he could feel his eyes growing heavy, felt the light and the sound around him draining away gradually.

"You'll find yourself drifting off into a deep sleep..."

His eyes flittered, and eventually he found them becoming heavy as lead- shutting out everything else around him; save for Doctor Monroe's calming voice and lingering reassurance.

_Tell me what you see Dean..._

* * *

><p><em>He was inside a cold, metallic passage that seemed to extend on and on as far as the eye could see. The walls were lined with pipes and bundles of cables, likely miles and miles of them down here. The walls were regularly marked with large white, faded letters and numbers that were obviously meant as a means of finding your way for the maintenance workers and other staff- but to him it meant nothing. Rather, he was uncomfortably reminded of the cold, sprawling underground passages of the Umbrella facility they had navigated three years back. <em>

_Dean's footsteps echoed along the empty expanses, rolling back and forth to him as he moved on, pushing on towards the voice he had heard in the distance- fleeting, but distinct. He hadn't imagined it. _

_He passed by another junction, not lingering to peer down, to try and find some semblance of life. He never saw anything, just the splashes of crimson liquid up the walls and ceiling. No bodies, but he knew fine well what had happened to them. Still walking about somewhere, with a new purpose in life._

_He heard the voice again, and froze. Dead ahead of him, maybe 50 yards at the most-_

_He took off at a sprint, and almost ran headlong into a plain steel wall, the bare panels covered with thin steel mesh, though he paid that feature little heed when he looked to the side and saw the figure crouched against the wall, head down, one arm holding onto the mesh, the other one raised protectively over his face. He wore the tattered and frayed remains of a police uniform, the shirt and pants splattered with blood._

_He sucked in a deep gasp of breath as he stooped in front of the figure, grabbing onto one of his arms. "Ben! It's me!"_

"_Dean?" the hoarse voice of Ben Campbell asked a she looked around at his old friend. His blue eyes were extremely bloodshot and tired with dark bags, his chin bearing a thick, bristly beard, his breath hot and reeking of something unpleasant. "What...are you doing here?" he then asked, barely able to get the words out. _

"_Why do you think?" asked Dean as though the answer were obvious, "I'm here to get you out." Ben just shook his head and lowered it, letting the information sink in._

"_How long have you been here?" Dean then asked, when he got no response._

"_Three years," Ben gasped, the answer coming out immediately. Dean blinked in surprise._

"_Three years...three long years, waiting for you to come and get me out of here."_

"_Well I'm here now," replied Dean as he tried to help Ben to stand. "Come on, let's get the hell out of here before anything comes along"-_

"_NO!" screamed Ben suddenly as he pulled his arm free, stumbling further along the wall. The sudden movement, and the roar of his raised voice, caused Dean to stumble back in surprise. Ben was on his feet fully now, face buried in his hands; barely masking weak sobs. _

"_I waited for so long Dean," he half-sobbed, shaking with sheer emotion. "I waited all this time, and where were you?" His face swivelled up to face Dean directly now, hot angry tears streaming down his cheeks and being soaked up by his beard._

"_You told me we would get out of there together, Dean."_

"_I know I did"-_

"_Why did you lie to me?"_

"_I didn't..." Dean trailed off, the words he was trying to speak dying in his throat, burning out prematurely. For the first time in his life, he didn't know what to say to his best friend. His oldest friend. The one constant even after he had moved to Raccoon, away from his childhood home._

"_You what?" hissed Ben as he took a step towards Dean, his body language now a lot more direct and threatening. "You lied to me Dean! You told me that we'd both get out of there alive, that we'd see our families again!"_

_He was advancing a lot more confidently now, and Dean found himself backing away in tandem, his brow glistening with sweat. He had no idea what to say, what to do- it was always the same when his demons faced him, taking on the form of his best friend. His voice had failed him, as had his nerves. He was just a terrified child at nursery, cowering before the headmaster._

"_-and yet you were the only one who made it out!" continued Ben, his voice continuing to rise in pitch. "Your family got to see you again, and mine will never have their son again! Do you have any idea what that was like for them?"_

"_I'm"-_

"_You're what?" screamed Ben, "you're sorry? Don't you even dare tell me that you're sorry! Sorry won't bring me back! You selfish bastard! All you cared about was saving your own skin, no matter how many people died! How many died getting you this far, Dean?"_

"_Ben, stop it," whispered Dean as he backed away even further, never breaking sight with Ben's wide, wild eyes. _

"_No Dean!" he yelled back. "Never! Not until you see for yourself the suffering you caused!"_

_Other forms materialised behind Dean. He recognised most of the faces- other members of the R.P.D, men he'd worked alongside for two years, as well as several of the U.B.C.S soldiers from Delta Platoon, who had helped Ben and Dean in their escape three years ago- they were all people who had perished in that fateful incident years ago. They all reached out for him with weary arms, their faces vacant, though their mouths were all demanding why. _

"_We all died for your own gain!" growled Ben, "and now it's high time you paid the price for your cowardice!"_

"_No, no!" gasped Dean as he shook his head frantically. _

"_Why did you let us all die?"_

"_I didn't want this!"_

"_WHY DID YOU LET ME DIE?" screamed Ben at the top of his lungs, and then a pair of automated steel doors came between them, cutting the two of them off from one another._

_Dean fell backwards into the wall, a breath of relief flying from his lungs, his heart rate lowering. He wiped a hand over his forehead, clearing away a thick sheen of sweat._

_He then turned to face the corridor once again, and this time he saw something else. He could see what looked like graffiti covering the walls on both sides of the passage, so packed-in together they were practically covering one another. He moved closer for a better look, and he could see more isolated messages, separate from the main mass, all of it daubed in dark red liquid that he was all too familiar with. Copper filtered into his nostrils. _

_His stomach turned over on itself when he realised that all of the messages were directed at him- in huge, scratchy letters. There was a lot of hate and anger behind the messages, in the hand of whoever had daubed them. _

_DIE DEAN_

_BURN IN HELL TRAVERS_

_YOU DON'T DESERVE TO LIVE DEAN_

_KILL DEAN, KILL HIM_

_YOU WILL SUFFER DEAN, SUFFER FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE_

_YOU WILL ANSWER FOR YOUR SINS_

_He ignored it all as soon as he saw the form huddled beneath the defaced wall, and he stepped backwards in utter horror, clamping his hands to his mouth._

"_No..."_

_There was a body slumped against the wall, a body that had been dead for so long it was just a rotted skeleton now, only a few stray strips of flesh and muscle still clinging to the ribcage and skull. He recognised the tattered and frayed remnants of an RPD uniform immediately, and he found himself sinking to his knees, the burden proving too much._

_There were tears in his eyes as he finally became aware of someone standing behind him, and then felt something cold and metallic press into the back of his skull, pressing deep enough to make him feel it against his skin. Then he heard the all-too familiar voice. _

"_A bullet in the head- fitting, for a coward- and a murderer."_

_The gun fired._

* * *

><p>Dean jerked up and let out a shout of surprise, before he suddenly realised that he was still in Doctor Monroe's office, the rather startled-looking woman only sat a few feet away.<p>

"Dean!" she exclaimed. "It's ok, its ok- you're back here now..."

"I know, I'm sorry Doctor," he stated as he eased himself out of the seat, only then realising that he was dripping with sweat as his bare skin was sticking to the leather. The semi-circles of wet underneath his armpits also testified to his current state, and he sighed in embarassment.

"I'm"-

"It's ok, you don't have to apologise," Doctor Monroe insisted, holding a hand out for him. "I know it was probably a very traumatic thing for you to re-live...but for you to actually choose to do so willingly- that's an improvement."

"If you say so, Doc," he replied, not sounding convinced, as he sat on the edge of the seat and held a hand to his forehead, feeling a migraine creeping in. He felt her gaze on him still, knowing that she wanted him to talk to her about what he had seen. If only talking about it was easier than actually reliving it.

"It was the same as normal," he began, "I'm in some place, and I can hear him calling me, or I find him, and he's been waiting for me for three years."

"By 'him', I assume you mean Ben, right?" she asked. He nodded slowly. After another pause, he began to talk once more, this time a lot more fluidly and confidently.

"We were partners- and partners are meant to look out for one another, right? Well I didn't keep up my end of the bargain on that day, did I?" he asked with a crooked half-grin that faded as quickly as it had appeared.

"And the worst part is that...no matter what, I can't change what's already happened in the past, no matter how much I want to...I can't bring him back, I can't do anything to try and make it better for his parents. I still see them from time to time, and even now I can still feel that resentment. That I was the one who had taken their son away from them, and they'll never forgive me for that. Who would?"

Doctor Monroe remained silent as ever as she continued to write in her notes. Dean glanced over briefly, a twinge of resentment curling up in the back of his mind. That part of him wished that she would say something, anything at all, to justify him bleeding his heart out all over her office floor. He gritted his teeth slightly, in the back of his mouth, though it was almost impossible to silence the voice in his head.

_I see my $300 a month is going to a good cause-_

"Dean," she said finally, breaking him out of his resentful thought process. He looked around to her as she checked her watch. "Our time is up, I'm afraid.

_So, $300 a month, that's just over $100 per half an hour. Funny how that works itself out-_

"Yeah, I hear you," he said instead as he sat himself up straighter. As he did, the doctor produced something from out of sight and passed it to him- it was a blank memo pad, A4 size to be precise. He looked as it curiously for a moment before taking it.

"What's this for?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"It was another new technique I hoped we could try," she explained, "like homework, if you may."

"Been a very long time since I last did homework," he mentioned dryly.

"I'm sure," she said flatly, sidestepping his remark. "In that book I'd like you to write about anything you like- your thoughts, your feelings. You don't have to start somewhere new, you can always just begin by going over what we've discussed in the past, if that would be easier."

"Yeah, sure," he replied, not sounding fully convinced.

"Please Dean," the doctor pleaded, "just try it out. If it doesn't gel, then don't worry about it, OK?"

"OK," he responded, offering a very slight nod. He rose up, the leather couch squeaking some more as his sweaty skin left contact with it, and he reached for his jacket. "So, I suppose I'll see you next time then."

"You will indeed," the doctor replied with her own smile. "Take care, Dean."

The next part was always the same- leaving Doctor Monroe's office, speaking to her secretary in order to confirm his appointment next week, and then leaving the way he had came, descending the spiralling stairs towards the entrance, moving as though he were on autopilot. After half of hour of spilling his thoughts and dark notions to this woman whose job was to essentially probe the deepest recess of his mind, attempt to 'cure' him of his past nightmares. But he knew deep down that in a way there was no hope for him. The things he had seen, the things he had fought physically- nobody who wasn't in Raccoon City at the time could ever understand what he had been through.

He stepped out onto the open street and headed straight for the pickup truck, bypassing the small group of bystanders who had gathered around the young gang member who was sat on a bench, groaning and holding his privates. Dean ignored the poor sap as he opened the door of his truck and got in, throwing the empty memo pad over onto the passenger seat. He then put the key into the ignition and turned it, firing the engine up.

As he did, he sighed and rubbed his face once more. The sweat was still relatively fresh on his skin, and he knew he'd be needing a shower once he got home. He was about to pop the handbrake and get going when he suddenly felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up briskly.

"What's the matter? Lost your nerve?"

He saw the all-too familiar face in the rear view mirror, sitting in the back seat, and he whirled around, his heart thundering-

-the back seat was empty.

He choked out a gasp of relief, and then quickly turned back to the wheel. He popped the hand brake off and then he quickly backed the truck out and pulled a u-turn to head back the way he had come into initially, ignoring the several other motorists who honked their horns at him. As he headed along the main road back to Riverview, he couldn't shake that damned face from his head.

* * *

><p>Once back home, half an hour later, he took the time to take a hot shower and to change his clothes, this time opting for an old, frayed white t-shirt that still had a few muddy stains on it from his previous times in helping out on the farm, and an old pair of jeans that had a few good holes in them, one of them being from when he was helping his father to fix the tractor's engine and he caught himself on one of the sharpened edges of the chassis. Just as well that it didn't take half of his skin off, his father said afterwards, drolly.<p>

He finished the old outfit with a pair of sturdy work boots that included steel toecaps, just in case the tractor ran over his foot (again- everyone else still wouldn't let him forget that incident), and he was set to play at being farmhand. The memo pad that Doctor Monroe had given to him remained on the desk in his room, beside his laptop. He glanced at it again for a moment, and then sighed once more.

_I'll see to you later._

He left his room and clumped downstairs, entering the kitchen and outside into the back yard where his mother was currently hanging out the wet washing to be dried in the breeze. The back of the yard was a simple fence made from wooden planks that his father had built nearly 20 years ago when the old fence rotted away, a gate in the centre opening out into the wide fields outside where Dean could already see several of the other farm hands harvesting the wheat and other crops, moving the scythes in wide, sweeping motions, gathering up the sheaths and piling them high within the wide wicker baskets or the large wooden cart.

A sudden barking caused him to nearly jump out of his skin, and for a brief moment he had visions of a rotted canine carcass, missing its skin, lunging at his throat, but it soon faded as he saw the grey and white fur of the family dog, Grey, come bounding into view. A Siberian Husky breed with bright blue eyes, they had got him to replace Hooch, the old Beagel who had lived to a ripe old age, passing away shortly before Dean had returned home from Raccoon City.

"Hey there boy," he smiled as he ruffled the dog's ears. It whined a little in appreciation and then sat down on the grass in front of him, tail wagging furiously and tongue lolling freely from his panting mouth. "What's that?" he then asked, "you want to play fetch?" The dog barked as if in response, when his mother finally piped up.

"Now now, you know fine well your father will have your guts for garters if you play with that animal rather than go and help him out at the orchard," she stated with a hint of playfulness.

"Yes, mother," he sighed in mock defeat, before stooping down to stroke Grey's head again. "Sorry buddy, that fetch game will have to wait for a while." The animal, as if knowing what he was saying as always, whined and lowered his head. He then began to walk towards the gate in the fence, pushing through as he shouted over his shoulder.

"See you later, mom."

"See you honey," she called back.

She hadn't even asked him how his appointment with Doctor Monroe had gone. He appreciated that, especially because it was bad enough that he didn't talk to them about what he discussed at his sessions. Trying to ask him about it would be akin to running up against a brick wall. He'd only made it about 20 yards across the field when a voice was hailing him.

"Hey there, Mr Travers!"

He turned to see the lanky form of Billy Munford, the farm's chief farmhand, striding up from the back lane to greet him. Billy had served on the farm for the last 6 years or so, an activity which filled almost every moment of his spare time, when not working his part-time shift as a warehouse worker in one of the neighbouring towns. Being here on the fields at least helped him take his mind off that menial work. Billy was as tall and thin as a beanpole, standing over six feet tall, with a well-groomed sheath of light blonde hair and blue eyes, his nails bitten down almost to the cuticle on some fingers, his only bad habit.

Many people who had met Billy for the first time assumed him an uneducated bumpkin, in truth he was quick-minded and had a keen eye for detail, vital in his duties on the farm. He was also incredibly polite- he always referred to Dean as 'Mr Travers', while Lisa was 'Miss Travers', and their father always got 'Boss' or 'Chief'. As his mother always said, chivalry wasn't dead- you just had to find the right person.

"Hey there, Billy," smiled Dean as he shook the tall man's head, Billy falling into step beside him as he began to walk the dirt trail up towards the apple orchard. "Been having any trouble with the harvest so far?"

"None so far, Mr Travers," replied Billy with a slight shake of the head. "Looks as though the crops have matured perfectly this year- no disease, no wilting- and definitely no more gopher infestations."

"Thank God for that," half-laughed Dean, remembering how serious the gophers have moved in on the barley fields last year. They ended up having to call in the exterminator, who filled the tunnel network with gas before igniting it with a spark of fire. The resulting crump of the earth caving in was somewhat impressive to watch- but not for the gophers who were cowering underground at the time.

"And how was your appointment this morning with that lady doctor?" Billy then asked.

"Well enough, I suppose," responded Dean, not going into any more detail. He knew they were all trying to help, be supportive, but sometimes he just felt like screaming at them all to back off and give him some space. But he also needed all the support he could get, and screaming like a little kid wouldn't help anyone.

The apple orchard itself was a space that covered some 6 hectares, featuring nearly eighty trees in all, and they were all ripe for picking, if the gleaming red and green fruit hanging from each branch was of any indication. Three more farmhands walked to and fro, hefting the huge collection baskets that would be used to collect the fruit after it was picked, and one more was setting up the ladders that would be scaled for them to actually pick the fruit.

"Hey!" called one of them as he produced a couple of bright red apples from an already full basket, which he then tossed to Dean and Billy, who snatched them out of the air. "Nice for the chief's son to actually show his face and help us peons out for a change!"

"Very funny, smartass," laughed Dean a she rubbed the apple on his shirt and took a bite, the skin crunching as his teeth tore through, and then the sweet juice flowed like a river. Delicious, as always, he thought to himself as he quickly took another couple of quick bites.

"Another perfect batch, eh?" asked Billy as he bit into his own apple. The other farmhands were about to chip in again before another voice came through the orchard and cut them all off.

"Hope you're not all slacking off, because if this harvest doesn't get picked then none of you get paid."

Joseph Travers walked into view from out behind one of the larger apple trees, pulling on his work gloves as he did so. He almost resembled Dean's mirror image, though his hair was rapidly greying and his eyes had lost the youthful glint, crow's feet and other wrinkles now forming on his face. A decorated Vietnam War veteran, he remained as fit as an ox thanks to his occupation, and always made it clear that he'd be six feet under before they put him in a care home- even as he rapidly approached his sixtieth birthday.

"Why? You don't pay me anything either way, pop," retorted Dean with a smirk.

"Very funny, Einstein."

Dean and his father had gotten on pretty well for the most part when he had come home from Raccoon- the latter always quick to pull Dean up on his supposed trying to get out of helping out on the farm, though his son was always willing to chip in when needed. It meant the two of them could spend some time together, catch up for the five years when he had stormed out and never looked back. Joseph also knew not to pry too deep into his son's sessions with Dr Monroe either. As long as they both got on well enough, everything else was a moot point.

"Come on then," Joseph said as he tossed Dean a spare pair of work gloves as well, "let's see if your muscles are still up to scratch."

"Everyone's a comedian," grinned Dean as he finished pulling the gloves on, "only if Billy and the others here are willing to pull their weight as well."

"Is that a challenge, Dean?" asked Billy in a mocking tone as the other farmhands assembled began to laugh.

"Come on, save for the jokes for when the work is done," admonished Joseph as he approached one of the already positioned ladders. "These apples won't pick themselves, right? Someone get me a basket."

"Yes sir," replied Dean with a mock salute as they got to work.

"Come on, I'm not a soldier anymore," chuckled Joseph as he began to scale the ladder.

With eighty trees all at full capacity, the work took them all just under two hours to complete the task, climbing each tree in turn, picking the fruit, examining each and every piece, and then dropping them into the baskets to be moved elsewhere. Any fruit which had either been infested with worms, pests, or disease were discarded. Many would have considered this work mundane and mind-numbing, but Dean didn't complain- he never complained. It kept him busy, kept him fit, kept him focused. After all, whoever it was who said that 'idle hands are the devil's playthings' was talking at least some sense.

It was getting close to the end of the picking when he descended the latest ladder, having filled yet another basket to full, before picking it up and humping it over towards the flatbed truck that was parked close by. One of the farmhands helped him lift it up onto the truck's flatbed, before he moved over to a lone tree trunk, sitting down and wiping his brow free of sweat.

"Had enough?" asked his father as he passed him a water bottle, taking a seat beside him.

"Ha, I'm not as old as you yet," taunted Dean light-heartedly. That earned a punch to the shoulder.

"What did I tell you about respecting your elders?" asked Joseph with a toothy grin.

"I don't know, something you've told me many times in the past," responded Dean as he took a swig of the ice cold liquid, feeling it rush down his throat and quench his thirst. He then sighed and rubbed his face, before he heard his father speak up next to him again.

"So son, what about your sessions with the good Doctor?" he asked, out of nowhere.

"Come on dad," responded Dean firmly, "you know fine well that I don't like talking about that at the best of times"-

"Come on son, can you blame me for being curious?"

"Guess not."

"How are they going? You making good progress?"

There was a beat of silence before Dean offered his reply. "Yeah, yes- I do think that I'm making progress with the sessions. Starting to open up some more."

"Enough to discuss it with the rest of us?"

"_Dad."_

The firmness of the word silenced Joseph Travers for a second, before he sighed and looked back over the remaining farmhands who were finishing off the apple picking. Billy stood about yelling at them to hurry up and get it finished so he could get home in time for his lunch.

"I'm just saying son," he began, picking his words carefully, "that you don't have to always talk to just the one person or persons the whole time. We're your family Dean, we just want to help you."

"I know that."

"Lisa's been worried sick these last few weeks," his father added, "not getting enough sleep, and especially with this being the first day of her new job"-

"I get the idea dad," Dean responded in a prickly manner. He turned away, avoiding direct eye contact.

"I'm just saying you don't have to bottle it up all the time," his father continued in a more insistent tone. Close by, the final couple of apple baskets were carried past towards the truck. "Look, it was the same with me. When I got back from the war"-

"No offence dad, but this isn't the same thing."

"-when I got back from the war," Joseph continued, ignoring Dean's deflection, "your mother convinced me to talk about what happened out there- the things I saw, what I felt: hell, it was good she suggested that, considering some of it. God knows, after what happened on that second tour of duty..."

* * *

><p><em><strong>March 19<strong>__**th**__** 1968, 1238 hours local time, somewhere in the Vietnam Jungle...**_

_Sergeant Joseph Travers trudged on through the dense Vietnamese Jungle, occasionally batting away a particularly large fly that buzzed too close to his face. He had taped off his boots to his camouflaged pants before they had set off from home base some hours ago, but he could already feel that his feet were sodden through- along with the rest of his flesh, slick with warm sweat. The rest of his outfit consisted of a fatigues shirt and flak jacket, along with the standard issued camo pants, the thigh pockets containing spare ammunition and other vital pieces of kit, topped off with the distinctive shape of the wide-brimmed 'boonie' hat. _

_Cradled in his arms was a CAR-15 assault rifle, more commonly referred to as the 'Commando' by the armourers back at home base- and generally considered superior to the M16 used by the majority of American troops in the country- which had a tendency to jam in these humid conditions. The weapon's stock and barrel casing bore green and brown jungle-pattern camouflage, the shining parts buffed down with boot polish before they had set out that morning. His flak vest was also laden down with fragmentation grenades and other non-lethal grenades such as flash bangs and concussion grenades. The remainder of his six-man squad were armed in a similar fashion, save for Nelson Swift, their support gunner, who carried an M60 machine gun in place of a Commando, spare belts of bullets draped over his broad shoulders. _

_At 26 years of age, with bright green eyes, a full head of brown hair and a muscular physique, Joseph Travers embodied the classic image of America's fighting man, and his commanding officers recognised that too. Whenever the press of journalists came on a tour of the front, he would always be at the front of each picture. Even after the fight for Hue City not too long ago, the Colonel had insisted on him seeing a journalist to give a quick interview to camera, even a she was trying to account for the rest of his squad after that nightmare skirmish._

_They were using him as a propaganda tool, and he hated it with a passion. He came here to fight for a purpose, to deny the North Vietnamese armies and Communism in general, to liberate South Vietnam from their oppressive enemy. But public support for the war was declining day by day, and they needed every propaganda tool they could get. He didn't blame them really, but at the end of the day he was still a grunt fighting the good fight on the front lines. Hence why he had volunteered himself for this mission._

_They had lost contact with an allied unit three days ago, but HQ had good reason to believe that the men were still alive, prisoners of the Vietcong guerrilla fighters, and Joseph's team was to advance to their last known location, less than half a click straight ahead. Joseph had insisted on picking men from his own platoon to accompany him, men he could rely on when the going became tough. And so they trudged on through the damp, muddy jungle, largely in silence in a line formation. The only man not present was their scout and point man, Hector Mckendrick, moving on ahead of them to check the route was clear. _

_Behind him, rifleman Derrick Hanson slapped away a fly that had landed on his cheek, before wiping his bare hand clean on his pants leg. "Jesus...this feels like a damned waste of time. Do we even know if these poor bastards are still alive?" he asked in his distinctive Virginian accent. "You know how the Vietcong treat their prisoners."_

"_Well HQ likes to keep optimistic," responded Joseph as he stepped carefully around a particularly thick bundle of vines snaking down from the jungle canopy. "And it's a bit too late to just turn around and walk back now. Besides, we're deep in Charlie's territory now: the best thing we can do is to keep going."_

_From further back along the line, sniper Duane Larkin scowled in annoyance at this and wafted more flies away from him. He held a Commando like the others, except his had an ACOG sight with a magnified zoom function mounted on the top railing. Despite his slender and almost unhealthy-looking frame, he was one hell of a shot- perhaps the best in the whole platoon. His skills would be valuable on this op. _

"_Damn it, if only next time we could get an op somewhere that doesn't have mud up to your shins," the sniper grumbled, lifting one of his legs to show how caked in mud he had become since they had stepped out that morning. Joseph was about to open his mouth to say something in response when there was a crackle of static on their radios as Mckendrick radioed in. They all came to an abrupt halt as Joseph raised his open hand. _

"_What's up?" he whispered into his radio as he then motioned for the others to get down and take cover. They broke off from their line formation and took up positions behind thick trees, their weapons scanning to and fro for any danger._

"_Sarge, I found a village, less than 300 yards ahead of you," Mckendrick voice whispered back, "I think it would be better if you saw it for yourselves." Joseph looked back at the others, who looked equally uncertain and curious. The past few things they had seen in the jungle- the Vietcong's handiwork didn't bear thinking about, but at the same time there was still that morbid curiosity at the back of their minds. _

"_And watch your step;" warmed Mckendrick too, "Charlie's got booby traps left all over the place."_

_The remainder of the squad advanced on in a more cautious fashion, soon finding out what Mckendrick was referring to- they found the withered and stinking remains of a VC guerrilla fighter, impaled upon the sharpened bamboo spikes of a ramshackle frame, activated by a tripwire. It seemed similar traps had been set up throughout this entire section of jungle, and they were mindful to watch where they were walking at all times. If they could claim their own side then the spikes would claim them too_

_A few feet to Joseph's left, there was a sudden snapping of a trip line going as the team's medic- Corporal Adam Williamson- caught a thin length of wire with his descending boots. Swift heard the creaking of a makeshift pulley as the trap activated. _

"_Move!" barked Swift as he grabbed the Corporal by the front of his vest and pulled him to the side, just in time to avoid the barbaric-looking bamboo frame that swung around, the half dozen carved spikes feet away from impaling his soft flesh. The two men looked at the lethal trap and the carved bamboo spikes that would have easily slain either of them. None of the squad mentioned how close they had been to being killed. _

_It didn't take them much longer to find the village that Mckendrick had been referring too, as they suddenly broke out of the tree line into an open clearing. The scout himself was stood just on the other side of a nearby tree, his own Commando rifle sporting a suppressor and a red dot sight. He was tall and lean and had a neat beard on his face, but he was easily the best scout within the platoon. _

_He was also a man of few words, maintaining that reputation as he indicated the village itself with a sideways motion of his head. The settlement only comprised about half a dozen buildings, many of them having been long burnt to the ground, only charcoaled timbers and ashes remaining, whereas the bottom of the gentle slope featured a rice paddy field that ended before a dirt road and the edge of the jungle once more. But that wasn't what they took notice of._

_No, they noticed the bodies first. The VC had been through here and left their brutal mark in their own style. The three dozen or so people who lived here (or had been passing through) had been murdered in the most horrific fashion, their bodies just left to rot where they had fallen for the most part. Several were piled up within the water of the paddy field below, while at least three more- two men and a woman- had been left hanging from a makeshift gibbet, their hands and feet chopped off for some reason they didn't know of._

_Williamson peered inside one of the nearby burnt-out husks and he almost vomited on the spot when he saw the tiny scorched bones of the young children who had been thrown forcibly into the flames. Instead he turned away and retched openly. Hanson crossed over to check on him._

"_Holy fucking shit," whispered Swift as he walked up towards one of the still-intact buildings and peered inside. A family lay where they had been killed, including the family dogs, hacked into a bloody mess with bayonets and machetes._

"_Damn it, they killed everyone," muttered Williamson as he looked down the slope at the piled up bodies, having recovered from his bout of retching and coughing. _

"_What the hell's wrong with these bastards?" snarled Hanson as he kicked out at a stone, sending it skittering away from him across the mud. "They have to kill these damned people to get their kicks?"_

"_These people were probably in the wrong place, wrong time," muttered Joseph as he shook his head sadly. "The Charlie's showing us that they don't mess around, that they don't take any prisoners. They're trying to prove that they're not backing down from this fight."_

"_Jesus Christ," muttered someone else out of view, though Joseph would never find out who it was. _

"_Come on," the sergeant then announced, "we have to keep going. If Charlie's been through here, then we have to hurry before those P.O.W's follow the same fate."_

"_Damn it," scowled Swift angrily as he turned on his sergeant, "they even killed the goddamn dogs!" he then half-yelled, pointing towards the butchered animals he had just found. "What the hell's the chance of our buddies still being alive?"_

"_So you just want to turn around and walk all the way back to base?" asked Joseph in a prickly manner. "Well then be my guest, Nelson. Waste the entire day, why don't you?" The support gunner just tutted in anger and turned away, shaking his head, while a few of the others shifted uncomfortably on the spot._

_He would agree that he shared some of Swift's unease right then, but he was the leader of this unit and he had to hold it together for the others, otherwise their morale and their structure would crumble in an instant. They had to press on, despite the overwhelming prospect that those P.O.W's were likely dead, as Swift had suspected._

_Joseph turned to order the advance and paused. He'd been looking down the village slope, into the trees, when he had seen the very, very brief flash of sunlight being reflected off of glass. And the only glass he could think off out here in the jungle was that belonging to a sniper's scope-_

"_Sniper! Get down!" he barked, lunging forwards and tackling the larger figure of Swift down into the mud, just as a Dragunov SVD sniper rifle cracked loudly within the background noise of the jungle environment, a bullet lodging into the wall where Swift's head had been barely moments ago. _

"_Edge of the tree line! Edge of the tree line!" cried Hanson frantically as he crouched down behind the burnt-out wall of a nearby house._

"_Got him," responded Larkin as he sighted for only a brief second, and then fired, his Commando screaming through the trees. The foliage-covered figure of a VC sniper was thrown up and away, out of sight._

"_Ambush!" cried Joseph as loud as he could manage, ducking into cover behind a pile of logs and lifting his Commando to his shoulder. "Stand and repel! Repel the bastards!"_

_The others got into cover as quickly and carefully as they dared, just as the trees rustled and at least half a dozen more VC guerrilla fights emerged into the open, running towards the slope and firing freely with their weapons. They wore light clothing and some bare vestiges of military gear, such as ammo bandoliers and webbing, or helmets normally seen on NVA troops. They were shouting in their native language, and heavily-accented English, mostly threats directed towards the American soldiers._

"_Go home, Yankee!" one of them shouted, firing his AK-47 one-handed._

"_Shit," cursed Hanson as he opened fire, his Commando rattling in his arms, but otherwise tearing through the first VC fighter and twisting him away. The others joined in gladly, the Commando rifles barking out a tight snap beneath the drone of Swift's M60 as he fired in swift bursts. The half dozen VC quickly bloomed into a dozen and much more as even more of the guerrilla fighters poured out of the woodwork. Some of them had been hiding, submerged, in the water of the paddy field with their breath held and were only just now showing themselves, while others still had concealed themselves, disgustingly, under the corpses of the villagers they had massacred. _

_Joseph turned to see one of them who had revealed himself dangerously close to the American's line. He shot him through the sternum before he even had the chance to raise a brutal-looking machete to bear, and then turned again to shoot another one who had emerged from the jungle directly behind them. _

"_Watch your backs!" he bellowed over the gunfire. Beside him, his men continued firing down the slope, Swift's M60 cutting through the trees, felling several of them and exposing more VC fighters to a clear view. Hanson fired the M203 launcher attached to his rifle's underbelly, and the explosion ripped through three more VC, and left one more screaming on the muddy ground, bleeding freely._

_Joseph kept a mental count of each VC he shot, knowing that each would be another face that he'd be seeing in his nightmares later on. Five, six, seven, eight-_

* * *

><p>"Dad?"<p>

Joseph Travers shook his head and looked over towards his son. "Yes?"

"Then what happened?"

"With what?"

Dean blinked in surprise and held his arms out on either side of him as if to say 'you know what'. "About the ambush in the village? You said the VC came out of the trees and the water?"

"Oh, that," Joseph responded, sounding as though he'd just woken from a trance. "Well, the VC came out of the trees, and we got them, and then we moved on. Just a routine engagement."

"And what about the P.O.W's?"

Joseph looked up where Billy was standing, giving him the thumbs up to show that the harvest was done and picked. "You know what, son? I'll tell you about it later when there's more time." And with that, he stood up and wandered off past Dean towards Billy and the others. Dean watched him go and sighed, deciding not to press anything too far.

_Guess I'm not the only one dodging the main issue..._

He rose up and walked after the others, intent on seeing the harvesting through to the end. He glanced at his watch to see that it was coming up to 1 pm. The gurgling in his stomach showed that it was coming up to lunch time as well.

However, there'd be a further surprise in store for him, when he saw one of the younger farmhands, Adam, come running up from the direction of the farm house, shouting Dean's name frantically and waving his arms wildly.

"Woah, hey!" Dean said, raising one arm in a calming gesture. "Slow it down a notch, Adam. Take a breath and tell me what's up."

Adam paused and leaned heavily on his knees to catch his breath. Adam Jobson was the youngest of the farmhands who worked on the Travers estate, still a teenager, helping out here on his spare days to earn a little extra money. A few inches shorter than Dean, with scraggly black hair, slight frame and an awkward manner, he seemed to be the stereotype of the poor university student trying to make ends meet.

"There's," he began, then paused to take another deep breath, as by now a small crowd having gathered to see what the fuss was all about, "there's some people who've come to the farm house to see you."

Dean furrowed his brow. "Really? Who?"

"No idea," Adam replied, "but they say that they used to know you, from some years back." The young man stopped once more to take a few breaths. Dean was silent as he let the information sink in. These people who said they knew him from years back...he knew that when he lived in New York for three years he made no serious friends, no-one that would miss him when he left. So that only meant-

_Someone from Raccoon City. From the R.P.D. That means it could be...but I haven't spoken to them in years!_

"Thanks, Adam," he said eventually, putting a hand on the youngster's shoulder and moving off towards the farm house, leaving the others behind. His pace was brisk enough, his mind still racing with the possibility bouncing around his skull.

He came around the side of the farm house first, so he could see the car that his visitors had arrived in, parked beside the old pickup truck. He made sure that the old rusty log-chopping hatchet was close by, lodged into its related tree stump.

The vehicle was a simple model- four doors, blue paint scheme, its plates at least a few years old. A small sign in the back window showed that it was a rental car. He sighed in relief, the paranoid part of him safe in the knowledge that Umbrella's lapdogs weren't coming to silence him for what he knew. He stepped away from the old hatchet.

He approached the front porch slowly, ascending the steps one at a time, the screen door shut but the wooden front door left wide open, so he could listen for conversing voices.

"So how did you say you knew Dean again?" his mother's voice asked.

"We used to work in the same line of work," responded another voice, a female voice. "In the police."

Dean flinched at the sound of the voice. He knew it immediately, even if he hadn't met the person it had belonged to in a long, long time.

"Completely different roles, but the same line of work all the same," added another unseen voice, a male. Yet another voice he recognised immediately.

He hastened his pace now, stepping onto the porch fully and pushing through the door, striding through the hallway towards the sitting room.

"Dean, is that you?" asked his mother.

"Yeah, it's me, mom," he responded as he stepped into the sitting room and paused in the doorway.

His mother was sat in the couch at the far side of the room, sitting beside a woman some years younger than her, wearing a blue jacket and plain jeans, her chestnut hair cut into a short bob, bright blue eyes turning to regard him, lighting up when their eyes met. Standing between them was a man wearing a green bomber jacket with an Air Force insignia on the right shoulder, along with black jeans and sturdy-looking black boots. He turned to face Dean as well, and his own deep blue eyes shone with recognition, above freshly-shaven cheeks.

Dean just stood there dumbly for a while longer, and then finally spoke up. "Oh man...this is just surreal."

"Nice to see you too," responded Chris Redfield with a lopsided grin.

**Author's note**: Oh yes- as I said in the intro for this fic, there would be appearances from characters in the Resident Evil canon, and here we are. As for any other characters, I will remain as tight-lipped as ever.

Another fairly short chapter here, but I promise that they will get longer and things will definitely pick up as events gather momentum and Dean is shown some painful home truths. As for when the next chapter will come I don't know, but I at least want to do the next chapter for Tales from the Necropolis first before I start on Chapter 3 for this fic. And as for Joseph's Vietnam flashback, we will return to it in the future, if you're a fan of that stuff. And also some pretty obvious 'Call of Duty: Black Ops' references.

Also, you may have worked this out by now, but chunks of text in italics show dream sequences/flashbacks. And I'm trying something new for this story as well, because as well as having the date and the time code at the start, I'm also including another block of text meant to be an excerpt from Dean's personal journal, as he comes to terms with the past and his path towards moving on from what happened.

Until the next time, you know the drill. R & R please, leave your feedback, positive or otherwise. If not- *cocks shotgun and aims it at reader's heads*


	3. Chapter 3: Lost and Found

Chapter 3: Lost and Found

**June 26****th**** 1301 hours**

Dean didn't say anything for several more seconds, until he realised that he was standing there as though everyone else in the room had grown a second head, and he finally broke into a wide smile.

"Holy shit man!" he said loudly, spreading his arms wide. "Never thought I'd see either of you again in a while!"

He found himself pulled into Chris' iron-tight bearhug, the taller man laughing as he did so. "Yeah well, you can't get rid of us that easily."

"Clearly," replied Dean in a light manner, as Chris finally released him before he crushed his ribs to dust. Then he stepped away as Jill got up to greet Dean herself, with a far more gentle embace and a quick peck on the cheek.

"You look well, Dean," she said with a smile.

"You don't look so bad yourself," responded Dean with cheeky grin, "though of course you never had much trouble with that." His little jibe was rewarded with a playful slap to the shoulder from Jill, who by now had become fully used to such remarks since she first joined the S.T.A.R.S three years back.

Then Dean realised that his mother had been watching the entire thing from her seat on the couch, one eyebrow lifted, and he turned to her, realising his rudeness. "Sorry mom- this is Chris and Jill. We used to work at the R.P.D together."

"Yes, I gathered as much," she smiled. "In the same department or..?"

"Uh, no," said Chris, as he squeezed around Dean and Jill to take a seat in one of the two seats, "myself and Jill were in the S.T.A.R.S unit. Counter-terrorism and other specialist cases."

"Yes, until we got disbanded," added Jill darkly, as she went and sat down on the other lone seat, just beside Chris. None of the former law enforcement officers mentioned exactly why the S.T.A.R.S unit was disbanded- or the deaths of over half of its members to begin with.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," responded Marie, as Dean took a seat beside her on the couch. "So, what have you both been doing ever since then?"

"Well, uh, all kinds really," responded Chris quickly (a little too quickly, perhaps), "travelling the country, catching up with old friends, that kind of thing." Dean picked up on his hasty reply, and assumed it had more to do with their past history with what happened out in the Arklay Forest, that fateful July night. Dean still had a vivid mental image in his head, of the blank stares on the faces of the S.T.A.R.S survivors after they had returned that early morning.

"Yeah, when you end up falling out of something like that sometimes you just need to take a step backwards and get everything into perspective," added Jill.

"Of course," nodded Marie. "My son here has been helping us out on the farm here since he got back. He's been a big help, especially since we're getting on a bit now."

"Oh come on mom, you and dad will still be around for a while yet," responded Dean with a playful smirk. "Besides, you were managing just fine beforehand." After that, there was a brief bout of silence.

"Oh, I'm sorry, where are my manners!" said Marie suddenly, rising to her feet, "can I offer either of you a tea or coffee?"

"Oh, thank you," said Jill with a smile, "yes, tea thank you. Milk, one sugar."

"And could I have a coffee, please?" added Chris. "Very black, no sugar. Just the way I like it," he added with a smirk, his deep blue eyes twinkling.

"Of course," Marie smiled. "Dean?"

"No thanks mom, I'm fine."

"OK, I'll be back in a bit," she smiled, before disappearing out into the kitchen. As soon as she was out of sight, Dean turned his head to regard his two guests with a passive stare. After a few seconds of silence, Chris spoke up.

"What?" he asked, innocently.

"How'd you find where I lived?" asked Dean, plainly.

"Well you always used to talk about your home town," stated Jill, "and so we found out where Riverview was when we were in Richmond, and then we asked about in town...and here we are."

"Well I do appreciate seeing you both," continued Dean, "especially seeing that no-one's seen hide nor hair of you since three years ago. Hell, some of us were convinced that you'd gone and fallen off the face of the planet. Right before"-

_Right before the Raccoon City Outbreak._

"We've been busy," said Chris, after a few seconds choosing his words. "Busy investigating Umbrella." The mention of that fateful word was more than enough to get Dean's attention straight away. He remembered that the S.T.A.R.S had been very vocal about Umbrella's involvement in the Arklay murders, Chief Irons stonewalling their enquiries at every turn.

"In the end, when that bastard Irons suspended us all, we didn't have much choice," continued Chris. "So we packed up and left for Europe. We were hoping that we'd be able to find a way into Umbrella's European HQ and get what we needed to shut them down."

"I'm guessing that didn't go to plan," responded Dean, "considering that Umbrella are still here today."

"You know how much wealth Umbrella has on its side," said Jill glumly, "there was enough evidence that came out of Raccoon City to bury any other company a dozen times over, except that they had the funds to hire the biggest and best legal team in the world."

"That I can understand," reasoned Dean, "especially after everything that I saw myself..."

"Everything you saw?" asked Jill.

Dean nodded. "We only got out in the end when we took a route through a secret Umbrella storage facility, below their Administration offices on the south side of the city. We saw everything they had down there, all their dirty secrets and monsters. They thought they were above being touched by any kind of justice."

"Tell me about it," sighed Jill. "I saw it myself too- that old factory on the edge of the park? That was one of their disposal facilities."

"Wait...what do you mean?" asked Dean.

"Because I was stuck in Raccoon City during the outbreak myself."

Dean blinked in surprise. "But I thought that"-

"Yes, but Jill stayed behind in Raccoon City, to see what Umbrella was up to there," cut in Chris. "Though of course before we all knew it, the outbreak happened."

In any other situation, with any other person asking about Raccoon City, Dean would have very likely told said person where to go. But these were people he had once known quite well, people he saw every day- and crucially, people who had experienced the horrors of Umbrella's creations first-hand; the first ones who had experienced them, to be more specific. He remembered what Doctor Monroe had told him once.

_You can't expect to get past this unless you talk to someone other than me, Dean._

"When I was in Raccoon City," he began, "we met up with some members of Umbrella's Biohazard Counter measure Service"-

"The U.B.C.S," interrupted Jill. "Some of their men helped me out in Raccoon too."

"OK, and when you were in Raccoon City, the others were in Europe, right?" continued Dean, before glancing over towards Chris.

"Well, most of us were," responded Chris, "except Brad."

"Of course not," scoffed Dean, remembering the cowardly helicopter pilot of Alpha Team who would almost jump out of his skin at the slightest provocation- giving the rest of the R.P.D plenty of entertainment in the process. "Who ever expected Brad to be the daring sort? What happened to him, did he go running back"-

"He's dead."

Dean faltered, his apparent lack of respect for Brad shutting him up quicker than anything else could possibly manage.

"Oh," he said instead, looking down at the floor, letting the awkward silence hang in the air for a few seconds. "W-what happened to him?"

"He was in Raccoon City at the same time I was," responded Jill, her voice low. "I have no clue why, but when I was making my escape I found him in Jack's Bar. He was delirious, going on about something that was after S.T.A.R.S members. I just thought it was the stress getting to him, but then it caught up to us in front of the R.P.D building and...and"-

She trailed off there and put a hand to her face, even as Chris patted her shoulder reassuringly and picked up from there. "Brad might not have been the bravest guy we knew, but he still came back for us that night. We'd probably all be dead now if it weren't for him. He didn't deserve to die like that."

"He saved me that night, and then when it came the time to repay him I couldn't do a damned thing!" said Jill, her voice close to breaking.

"Wait, what killed him?" asked Dean, curiously.

"The Nemesis did," replied Chris, matter-of-factly. "Impaled him straight through the face- poor bastard didn't stand a chance.

Dean furrowed his brow. "The _what?_"

Chris picked his words before he began to explain. "It was another one of Umbrella's B.O.W creations- an improvement on their Tyrant creations, created by their European division. Its intelligence was far higher than that of anything before it, to the extent that it could carry out a specific mission."

Suddenly, there was a buff file in Chris's hand, and he removed a few pictures and a couple sheets of paper from inside, passing them over to Dean. The farmer's son looked through them, slowing down and then eventually freezing up as he saw they showed surveillance footage of a large body on a mortician's slab- a very large slab- and the gradual changes it underwent, every single change in body mass of tissue composition noted.

But he took more notice in the demented permanent grin that framed its face, covered in ashen grey flesh and with one eye crudely stapled over.

"This thing nearly killed me in Raccoon City," he said, pointing to the pictures, "twice."

"You should count yourself lucky you only faced it twice," Jill responded. "I swear, that damned thing would have chased me to the centre of the earth if it could. I barely managed to finish if off at the end."

"Jesus," muttered Dean, shaking his head, "and I thought a regular Tyrant was bad enough." He remembered that one such specimen had nearly taken his life back in Raccoon City- and had taken Ben's life instead.

_Stop it!_

"Yeah, my thoughts exactly," responded Chris dryly. "And they had given it the orders to kill the remaining S.T.A.R.S members, because of what we saw in the forest- in the mansion."

"Jesus," whispered Dean, turning away. "They'd go that far to cover their tracks?" He overlooked the fact that himself and Ben had been considered collateral damage in the Nemesis' mission.

"They had Raccoon City nuked into oblivion, how far did you think they could go?" snorted Chris derisively. "Besides, they had tabs on the rest of us from the moment we got off the plane in Europe." Dean's eyes almost jumped out of his head.

"Seriously?"

"Oh yeah," Chris added, casually. "I had a safehouse in Paris- within a week of me setting up shop there I had to move out- came back one night and found these men turning it inside out. Barely managed to get away from them afterwards."

Throughout this little conversation, Dean had slowly turned and glanced out the window behind him, peering into the trees just outside of the farm, encircling the estate's front. If Umbrella had been watching Chris and Jill since they had left Raccoon City, were they doing the same to him? That seed of paranoia was so easily planted.

_I smuggled that data out of the city, got it to the army- it wouldn't surprise me if they were._

"So what about since then?" asked Dean. Jill was about to say something when Marie suddenly reappeared, carrying a mug of tea and coffee, one in each hand.

"Here we are," she said with a smile, as she set the mugs down. "I hope they're to your liking."

"Thank you so much, Mrs Travers," smiled Chris as he took up his own mug and took a quick sip, and then immediately regretted it as he hissed from where it had scolded his tongue, setting the mug down again.

"Please, call me Marie," she replied, "and that'll teach you for drinking it too quickly," she added, cheekily.

"He never has the patience for anything," replied Jill, equally cheeky.

"Yeah, very funny," he murmured, setting the mug down.

"Uh, mom?" asked Dean. "Could you give us a little bit of time alone...please?" After a few seconds of his mother wondering what was going on, she smiled sweetly.

"Of course, sorry if I'm being a little overbearing."

"Oh it's not that, we just need to discuss a few things in private, that's all," responded Jill with a smile of her own.

"I see," responded Marie, before she rose to her feet. "I'll just be around...if you need me for anything." And with that, she shuffled out of the room, leaving the three of them alone. There was another silence, broken only by a subdued sip as Chris drank from his mug- a lot more patiently, this time.

"So?" asked Dean.

"So...what?" asked Chris, looking up from his mug, sounding almost comical at his attempt of being innocent.

"So what about since then?" asked Dean, as though it were obvious. "You still carrying out your little crusade against Umbrella?"

"I wouldn't joke about it if I were you," said Jill sharply, pulling a manila file out of a steel briefcase that he hadn't even noticed propped up beside her seat until now. She slid it across the table towards him, only stopping when he slapped his open palm down on top of it. "Raccoon City wasn't the only disaster that Umbrella caused."

Curiously, Dean opened the file, and he saw that inside were a series of newspaper clippings and black and white photographs, all of them laminated to ensure longevity. He flicked through them one by one, many of them articles on the Raccoon City disaster that he didn't linger too long on. He didn't have to read those words or look at those images to be reminded of what happened in that damned necropolis.

_Seeing it first-hand isn't something you forget quickly, _he thought to himself. He could feel the darkness stirring at the back of his mind, and he pushed it back quickly before the voice could chip in.

The next article he came across was something new though- the picture showed what looked to be a tiny island out in the Pacific Ocean, a massive plume of smoke trailing from its surface into the sky. The main headline of the article read _DISASTER AT SHEENA ISLAND, _and the date was another point of interest- 25th November 1998- barely two months after the destruction of Raccoon City.

"Sheena Island?" asked Dean. "Was that...?"

"It was the site of another Umbrella facility," answered Chris, having put down his mug for a change. "Specifically, their 'Tyrant Plant'."

"Tyrant Plant?" asked Dean.

"Yes, where they manufactured their mass-produced Tyrant models- the T-103," continued Jill. "According to some other project files we were able to get our hands on, one such unit was dropped into Raccoon City for a classified mission."

"Tyrants..." whispered Dean. "I- me and Ben- we fought one of those in Raccoon City, in that damned Umbrella storage facility, below their administration offices in the city. Took a hell of an effort to kill it in the end..." He trailed off there, not wanting to continue on further on how Ben had lost his life in that same encounter- all because of his incompetence.

"Yeah, Tyrants were the ultimate product of the T-Virus," interjected Chris. "We fought one in the mansion too- in the end that missile launcher we had in the chopper proved useful after all."

"And it wasn't just Sheena Island either," added Jill, indicating towards the file. "Keep reading."

Dean did so, passing by some more articles on Sheena Island, and he came to another, small clipping, the headline describing what seemed to be some kind of powerful explosion at a remote location in the middle of the Antarctic.

"The Antarctic?" he asked, incredulous.

"Yes, another Umbrella facility," responded Chris. "You'd be surprised at where they're able to build these places, well away from the public eye so they can continue their little 'experiments'."

"And then there was Rockfort Island," continued Jill.

"Rockfort Island?" asked Dean, only beginning to comprehend the implications of Umbrella having a facility out in the middle of Antarctica for one thing. He wondered exactly how many more 'secret' places they had over the entire world, still waiting to be found and taken out.

"Yeah," continued Chris. "A prison facility they had out in the Atlantic- and another research facility as well. It was headed up by the grandson of one of Umbrella's original founders. I was there in December '98- not too long after Raccoon City..."

"Why?" asked Dean.

"Because..." Chris sighed and trailed off there, before he continued on track, his voice a lot quieter. "Because of my sister..."

"Claire?" asked Dean, surprised. He'd never met Chris's little sister Claire face-to-face before, but the former S.T.A.R.S point man had always talked about her back in Raccoon- before it all went to hell, of course. She was the only family he had left after their parents had passed away in a traffic accident when they only young.

"Yeah, she ended up stuck in Raccoon City," explained Chris, voice still low. "I never told her anything about our plans to leave the country- I didn't want to worry her. And then she ended up walking right into that mess. She managed to get out luckily- and then she walked into Umbrella's European HQ to try and find some clue on my whereabouts- and got herself captured."

Dean remained silent throughout Chris's little tale. This had been the first he had heard about any of this, though he did have a faint memory of seeing on the news that Umbrella's HQ in Paris had apparently been a victim of a terrorist attack- something that he viewed at the time as being something the bastards deserved.

"And so she ended up in Rockfort," Chris continued, "and I only found that out because I got a message from Leon about what had happened"-

"Wait- you mean Leon Kennedy?" interrupted Dean.

"You knew him?" asked Jill, confused.

"Well...not personally, but I knew he was one of the new recruits we were meant to get at the R.P.D before everything went to hell," explained Dean, "and I also knew that he was one of the few R.P.D officers to get out of the city alive as well. But beyond that...not much."

"Small world, eh?" asked Chris, which elicited a smile from all three of the former police officers.

"Jesus, it's a lot bigger than we all thought," muttered Dean to himself after a long time, looking over the photos and the press clippings before him.

"You can say that again," agreed Jill. "But it's not all about Umbrella right now," she then added, somewhat ominously.

"What do you mean?" asked Dean, brow furrowed.

"She means that Umbrella aren't the only ones with a side line in bioweapon manufacture," explained Chris. "For years Umbrella had pretty much dominated that 'market', if you can call it that, but since Raccoon City other parties have moved in to take advantage of the vaccum created."

"What?" asked Dean in disbelief, before he turned his head away and scoffed in disgust. "Jesus Christ...what the hell is wrong with these people?"

"That's the million dollar question," sighed Jill, "but who would want to get to know those people too well?"

"It was just after my sister got taken to Rockfort Island," Chris added, "that it was attacked by a special forces group called the HCF"-

"HCF?" asked Dean.

"The Hive Capture Force," answered Jill. "We don't know much about them, but they seem to be employed by an organisation- we don't know who they are exactly, but they're gunning for Umbrella's position as top dog in the bioweapon production stakes."

"Let me guess," suggested Dean, "by stealing Umbrella's existing viral research and B.O.W's to begin with?"

"Yep," nodded Chris. "That's why they were on Rockfort Island- they were after something called the T-Veronica Virus."

"What?" asked Dean, his head whipping around. "Another virus that Umbrella had developed?"

"That's...a long story," said Chris carefully, before he suddenly revealed his own envelope full of photographs, pushing them towards Dean over the table. "But that wasn't the biggest surprise I got when I made it to that island. Most of the HCF teams had been killed or zombified- but then I saw who had lead them in to begin with."

"Who?" asked Dean, though it was clear they wouldn't give him the answer straight to his face. Instead he reached into the envelope and pulled out some more photos, in fuzzy black and white- likely taken from a typical security camera feed.

The images showed what looked like half-a-dozen soldiers in black combat gear, armed to the teeth with M4A1 assault rifles and other advanced weaponry, making their way through what looked like the storage wing of an industrial airport- the kind used for cargo transport. There were flashes of light from their weapons as they gunned down zombies that lingered about- images that made Dean more than a little queasy as he thought back to Raccoon.

He quickly focused on the other figure in the photos though- the one dressed like the other soldiers, but it looked more as though he was sauntering behind them almost as though he was just on his weekend constitutional- he didn't even have a weapon in his hands. Dean couldn't make out his face, but he could see the blonde hair at the very least.

"Wait," he said, his mind starting to catch up on what Chris was getting out. "You don't mean that...?" His voice trailed off as he looked over the faces of his two visitors. "You said that he was killed right in front of you."

"I know," responded Chris darkly. "But I knew what I saw. He's still alive- and working for the competition now. We know that much because of what he said to me at Rockfort- and he's been seen elsewhere since then."

"It was no secret that he'd been secretly working for Umbrella from the start, even after the founding of the S.T.A.R.S team," explained Jill, "but the truth was he was looking to jump ship the second he realised that Raccoon City- and Umbrella as a whole- was doomed to sink."

"Fingers in every basket, eh?" asked Dean sarcastically.

"Something like that," responded Chris, taking another sip of his coffee. That was followed by another bout of silence, until Dean finally spoke up, jumping onto the main concern that had been bouncing around inside his head ever since they had told him about their anti-Umbrella activities.

"Look," he said, voice lowered significantly, "why me?"

"What do you mean?" asked Jill.

"You know what I mean," he retorted. "You came all the way out here to see me for a reason, right? Ninety percent of tourists just pass straight through here on the way to Charlottesville, and as such not many people know exactly how to get to Riverview. So you came here to see me for a very good reason, right?" As he finished off his little statement, he watched as Chris slowly put his mug down, leaning back in his seat, considering his next reply.

"Look Dean, I'll give it to you straight- we need your help."

"_My_ help?"

"Yes," added Jill. "There's quite a few of us working against Umbrella and the other corporations, but we're still only a small group- we're not officially recognised and we don't have any official government funding either. For anyone high-up to publicly denounce Umbrella's activities would be akin to PR suicide. We're basically on our own in this, and we get by on what we can scrape together."

"I see," responded Dean. "So that's why you need my help, right? What stopped you from asking somebody else? What about Kevin?"

Chris just scoffed. "You're joking, right? It's impossible to try and pin that guy down for more than a few days at the most."

"And everyone else we've asked has turned us down flat," Jill added. "They want nothing to do with it. Look Dean," she continued, her voice taking on an urgent, almost pleading tone, "you were in Raccoon City when the outbreak happened. You've seen first-hand what Umbrella is capable of, what they created and unleashed on the world. You survived it all"-

"Despite everything," snapped Dean bitterly. Jill paused for a moment before continuing, aware of his intense gaze.

"-and as a result you have that vital experience. Come on Dean, you can't tell us that you can't stand the fact that Umbrella are still in business. For every day they are still in business, they're still causing suffering to some other unlucky souls."

"You've seen the news yourself," retorted Dean, "that legal case has been dragging on for three years now. No matter what gets leveraged against them, they always have an answer for it, a defence. The bastards are going down with the ship- to the bitter end."

"That will only last them so long," Chris jumped in. "Spencer's just trying to buy as much time as he can. And in the meantime, someone has to still derail Umbrella's secret projects, hurt their business even more."

Dean sighed and lowered his head. He felt for what his friends were trying to accomplish, he truly did. But after everything that had happened, after how far he had come in trying to leave the past behind...it had caught up with him once again. It was almost as though it were a great, hungry pit, yawning behind him, just waiting for him to falter and fall into the black abyss. He lowered his head and sighed.

"I'm sorry guys, but I have to say no."

"What?" asked Chris in surprise. "Why though?"

"Why do you think?" Dean snapped, glaring around at him. "You have any idea what it was like, these last three years, trying to move on? Trying to forget about all the shit that happened in Raccoon City? I'm happy here now, happier than I've ever been for a very long time! And you seriously want me to jump right back into all of that feet first?" He paused for a moment to let out a sarcastic scoff. "I don't think so! I'm sorry that you both came all this way for nothing...but I just can't."

He held his tongue now to see what effect his impassioned words had on his two visitors. Though he saw the concern and understanding across Jill's face- exactly as he remembered her being- Chris's expression was just completely passive.

"You think that you're the only person who's suffered because of what Umbrella did?" he asked, sharply. "You think you're the only person who saw his friends killed?"

"Chris," said Jill, turning to try and placate him, but the former Air Force pilot was having none of it.

"You weren't in those woods on that night, Dean," Chris continued, "you didn't see what was left of Kevin in the chopper"-

"Chris"-

"You weren't there when those fucking dogs tore Joseph to shreds"-

"Chris!"

"No Jill!" he snapped, turning on her. "He needs to know! He has no damned clue what it was like for us all that night! Creeping down those corridors, checking each door for an age, wondering what was lurking around every corner! You didn't see Kenneth with his throat ripped out! You didn't see Richard being eaten alive right in front of your eyes! You didn't see Forest..."

Chris's voice broke there and he lowered his head, hands clasped across the back of his head, as Jill shifted over a little and placed a caring hand across the back of his shoulders. Dean just watched warily, surprised at the suddenness of Chris's outburst. But for Chris himself, he found his mind wandering back towards to that night three years past- to the fate of his good friend.

* * *

><p><em><strong>July 24<strong>__**th**__** 1998, 2319 hours- somewhere in the Arklay Forest, Raccoon County**_

_The door creaked loudly as Chris Redfield stepped through promptly, and closed it behind him quietly, Beretta clenched tightly in his right hand, as though it were an extension of his own arm. He breathed a slight sigh of relief in finding that he'd been able to walk into one of the unexplored rooms of this place without something jumping at him out of the shadows._

_He briefly wondered who exactly had built this place again, and for what purpose. Sure, its well-furnished rooms and sprawling corridors suggested a stately residence for some well-off noble family, but there was no logical layout for the entire building: the random placement of rooms was just off-putting, even with the flimsy paper map he had managed to find tacked to the wall of the tiny storeroom he had dropped into scarcely an hour ago. The bizarre puzzles in some of the rooms beggared belief as well, as though the mansion had a second, sinister purpose, hidden beneath the varnished wood flooring and expensive wallpaper. _

_He could still hear the howls and the odd bark from the dogs out in the woods- the same ones that had ripped Joseph to shreds not long after they had found what was left of Bravo Team's helicopter crashed in the trees. The same dogs that had almost caught up with him when he had stumbled and fallen during the mad dash here- only a split-second intervention with his combat knife had saved him from Joseph's fate- and now he had lost contact with the others. _

_He'd found Kenneth at least- or what was left of him- in one of the first floor corridors, his throat ripped out while he had still been alive. The look of utter horror on his face had been one Chris wouldn't forget for the rest of his life. He'd found Richard as well, along with the new girl- Rebecca, was it?- and both of them had retreated into the medicine room on the first floor while Richard recuperated. Having found them in one of the upper floor corridors, Richard apparently suffering from the effects of some deadly poison, Chris had to make a mad dash back downstairs in order to get some serum to help him out. What was more disturbing though was the wound on Richard's arm- it looked like a snake bite, but from a snake that had to have been massive. A python, perhaps?_

_He'd come across Jill and Barry as well, both of them alive and in one piece thankfully. Though Barry seemed to be a little flaky and distracted by something, but considering the situation they had found themselves in, Chris didn't think too deeply on it. They'd set off to investigate the west wing of the mansion, and the first floor east wing respectively, leaving him to search the upper east wing. He had his Beretta on him, along with a fully loaded clip and one spare, as well as the shotgun he had found in the trophy room downstairs (after navigating an inexplicable descending ceiling trap to get out), fully loaded with 7 shells. That's all his life extended to in this place._

_He turned his head to see that he was on an open balcony, a table and a couple of metal chairs facing away from him, out over the woods. He guessed it would have given a nice view when the sun was coming up or going down, but right now he utterly failed to see any kind of beauty in anything right now. _

_A loud caw sounded, he and nearly jumped out of his skin, his Beretta jerking about to cover all approaches. He saw a couple of crows circling in the sky overhead, but thankfully they kept their distance. Perhaps they hadn't been driven mad yet, like the others he had encountered in the art gallery and the cemetery out back. He breathed a slight sigh of relief, and then took a few steps forwards, his boots letting off light creaks on the wooden floorboards._

_He rounded the corner, and saw how the balcony narrowed off, down a small set of steps onto an open plant space that contained a number of potted plants, many of them withered and dry now, in desperate need of watering, wooden boards giving way to steel grating. But Chris took more interest in the dead body he saw slumped in the lone seat. _

_He tensed up, Beretta aimed at the corpse's lowered head. Normally he was perfectly fine in dealing with dead bodies, having seen quite a few of them during his career with the S.T.A.R.S- but not in this damned place, where he had quickly learned that the dead didn't have the common decency to stay dead. Even worse, he recognised the blue combat vest and the brown combat pants the figure wore._

"_No...oh God no..." he whispered as he took a tentative step closer._

_He came a little closer, down the steps, and he saw that the vest's left sleeve had been torn away, along with the shirt underneath, exposing bare skin and a chunk of exposed flesh and bone just above the left nipple. The smell of blood and decay wafted into Chris's nostrils as he reached the bottom of the steps. He crinkled his nose and breathed out slowly, but the figure remained still. _

_Slowly, he holstered his pistol and stepped closer still, finally noticing the Milkor MGL-1 grenade launcher that was propped up beside the body- the same heavy weapon that was Forest's favourite on dangerous assignments. _

"_God no," whispered Chris as he stooped in front of what remained of Forest Speyer. "Forest..."_

_Whatever had killed Forest had certainly done a number on him- his right eye had been gouged out messily, whereas his lips and the flesh around his mouth had been ripped away as well, leaving his mouth stuck with a permanent, demented grin. The rest of his clothes were ragged and marked with dozens of tiny cuts and grazes, as was his head and the rest of his exposed skin. His greasy hair was matted with dried blood as well, his scalp ripped open by something sharp in places._

_This didn't look like the work of a zombie, which would have gone straight for the jugular. It looked more like it was the work of a swarm of much smaller creatures. A flock of those crows, perhaps? Considering where Forest was sitting slumped, out in the open, it was a reasonable assumption to make._

_Cautiously, Chris reached his hand out, towards the ammunition pouch at the right side of Forest's waist. Watching the body like a hawk, he carefully unbuttoned the pouch and opened it, reaching inside and pulling out a single magazine of 9mm rounds. He then quickly stepped back and tucked the clip away into his own pouch- 15 more bullets for the road ahead. 15 more bullets with which to increase his life expectancy with. He briefly considered taking the grenade launcher with him as well, but decided not to in the end, considering the fact he already had the shotgun- and there was a good chance Jill would need the extra firepower if she came this way._

_He stood back up and stepped away from Forest's corpse. The body hadn't moved an inch since he had arrived, but he still didn't plan on taking any chances. Though tempted then and there to walk back through that entrance and back to another, more familiar part of the mansion, he saw that the balcony continued around the corner of the brickwork just past the plants and Forest's body, and he knew it was better to at least check it out- who knew what random object would help him in this place? _

_He made his way further along the grated flooring, his boots making more noticeable clangs that would no doubt attract the attention of any nearby zombies. Thankfully, as he side-stepped around the corner, pistol raised, he saw that the next length of balcony was free of any threats- and he saw the row of small potted plants at the far end. He recognised the green herbs within in an instant._

_They were local to the Arklay County region, along with their blue and red cousins- specifically; the green ones contained a special compound that speeded up the healing process of the human metabolism. The same compound was used in Umbrella Inc.'s miracle 'First-Aid Spray', but in a pinch they could be ground down into a powder for immediate use, and even mixed with the other varieties. Chris himself had practically no knowledge of biology and the other sciences, but he was certain Rebecca would be able to use them for something._

"_May as well," he muttered to himself, stepping forwards towards the pots, until he was close enough to stoop down and begin pulling them up out of the soil they were planted in- _

_The very loud clatter of a steel deck chair being pushed back violently nearly gave him a heart attack, and caused him to spin about on his heel, his Beretta being drawn in an instant and being levelled straight ahead, towards the blind turn. He heard the all-too familiar shuffling, plodding footsteps, and then a long, drawn-out groan- tortuous, almost. Then he saw the figure, obscured in overhanging shadows, come around the corner- head lowered, arms swaying freely._

"_No," whispered Chris, shaking his head, not wanting to believe what he was seeing. "No, no, no dammit! Not you too, Forest!"_

_The zombie trudged forwards, into the moonlight. _

_It was Forest. They was no denying what his eyes were seeing now- the withered, desiccated corpse that he had just been examining moments beforehand was now on its feet, whatever evil running through its veins having bought it back onto its feet. Another tortuous moan escaped Forest's lipless mouth, and he trudged forwards again, moving a little closer._

"_No," muttered Chris, shaking his head more violently this time. "Forest, no!"_

_At the sound of his voice, zombie Forest suddenly let out an animalistic growl, bloody spittle dribbling down his chin, and lurched forwards at a faster pace at Chris, dragging his legs lethargically, arms outstretched. Chris couldn't even start to fathom what was right before him._

_Forest and Chris had been friends ever since the latter had first come to Raccoon City. Their marksman competitions had become something of a legend within the precinct- Chris always came out on top, but Forest was never far behind on scores, and never held a grudge either. They always played poker with a few others from the precinct every Thursday night, without fail. Hell, Forest had even asked Chris to be the Godfather for his unborn child. _

_Right now, there wasn't a single trace of that friend left. All he saw was Forest's rotted frame, filled with an unyielding hunger. Just like all the other poor souls he had encountered so far tonight, there was only one recourse to help them._

_Forest was only a few feet away when Chris raised his Beretta, aimed it between Forest's eyes, and squeezed the trigger._

_BAM!_

_The gunshot ripped through the relative quiet of the night, and Forest let out an almost surprised growl as his head snapped back, blood spraying everywhere, and he fell over onto his back with a loud slap. Chris remained standing in place, breathing harshly to himself, some of Forest's brain matter and blood sprayed on his face, just underneath his left eye._

_Then he dropped the Beretta to the ground, ran to the side railing, stuck his upper body over, and promptly vomited what remained of his dinner out onto the grass 20 feet below. He then tried to take a breath, but then retched and vomited once again, coughing until the awful taste of bile was gone from his mouth. Suddenly, there was a bout of barking and growling, as one of those damned dogs emerged from the nearby trees, circling beneath him, barking and braying up at him._

_He ignored it though, as he continued staring straight down, breathing slowly. Eventually, he spat one last time, and then straightened up, calmly turning to retrieve his Beretta, and then giving Forest's body one last search. He took the S.T.A.R.S badge from Forest's right breast pocket, spattered with blood droplets. He slipped it into the back pocket of his own pants, knowing that retrieving the body wouldn't be possible, but at least he could bring his friend's shield back. Then he reached into Forest's right pants pocket, and withdrew a small laminated photograph. He paused as he examined it._

_It was a picture of Forest and his wife Sarah, both of them standing in a gentle embrace, in the Arklay Views picnic grounds, located at the top of one of the nearest mountains. The vista behind them showed the metropolis of Raccoon City, lights glittering in the coming dusk. They both wore broad, happy smiles, and in the top corner was written a date in black ink: 12/02/1998, and Chris realised that was the date of their 5__th__ Wedding Anniversary. It was only a couple months after that when they learned they would be parents for the first time- Chris remembered how giddy Forest was at the thought- almost like a child in a sweet shop. _

_Chris turned the photo over, and saw the message scribbled on the back, in Forest's messy handwriting._

'_To my darling Sarah: you will always have my heart. Forest xxx'_

_Chris stared at the message for a while longer, and then finally reached up and carefully wiped away a single tear that had trickled from his right eye. He then sighed deeply, and tucked the photo away into his back pocket, alongside Forest's badge. He could get that back to Sarah, at the very least. But how could he even begin to start explaining to her how her husband had died?_

_He could worry about that when they got out of here. He stood up straight, drew his Beretta once again, and carefully stepped over Forest's festering corpse as he headed back towards the door back into the mansion. He looked over his shoulder._

"_Forest...I'm sorry."_

* * *

><p>After a while, Chris looked up, tears wetting his eyes. "Do you have any idea what it was like, having Sarah calling me a murderer? Saying that I deprived their son of growing up with a father? I never told her about the fact I had to kill him as a zombie, but there was no chance in hell I'd tell her that. And it wasn't just her...It was everyone else!"<p>

"Chris, don't do this to yourself," said Jill, trying to console him.

"We all went through hell that night, and what do we get when we come back? We get labelled as murderers, addicts, and worse!" continued Chris. "You know damned well everyone else in the R.P.D treated us as pariahs! Irons couldn't get us out of the door fast enough, because he was in Umbrella's pocket the whole time!"

Dean had been quiet the entire time that Chris had been ranting, knowing that any attempt to try and calm him down would likely end in him with a black eye or a busted nose. He remembered full well what had happened to Hugo from the Boys Crime Department- after accidently splashing some coffee in Chris's face, he ended up lain out on the floor of the cafeteria with a single punch from the S.T.A.R.S point man.

"What's going on?"

Everyone turned at the sound of the voice to see Joseph Travers stood in the doorway, having finally come in sometime when they weren't paying attention. His work gloves were gone, as were his boots, replaced with an old pair of slip-on shoes, though his overalls, smeared with dirt, where still in place.

"It's just that I heard a hell of a commotion before I came in," the farmer continued, "and this is normally a really quiet place. Who are these people, son?"

"We're sorry for the commotion, Mr Travers," said Jill, "we friends of your son. We used to work with him at the R.P.D."

"At Raccoon City?" asked Joe, eyebrow raised. He glanced over at Dean, who just nodded in confirmation.

"Yeah dad," he said, "they were in the S.T.A.R.S team. They came here because they were asking for my help with something important."

"That so?" asked Joe, looking over their visitors. "I'm sorry, but I think it would be for the best that you both leave. Right now."

"But sir"- began Chris.

"No, I heard the noise you were making. My son's had a hard enough time coming to terms with everything over the last three years, and he doesn't need people like you coming in here and bringing it all back up for him. You should go- unless you want me to give the sheriff a call- he happens to be a good friend of mine."

There was another long silence as the implications behind Joseph's words began to sink in, and then eventually Chris began to nod, reaching out and raking in the photos and everything else he had produced for Dean to look through.

"Fine," he said, bitterly. "You want us to go- fine. Dean's made it pretty clear that he's not interested in the slightest. Come on Jill, this was a massive waste of time." His companion just nodded, defeated, as he finished up his collecting and dumped it all into a business satchel, picking up his mug and downing the rest of his black coffee in a single gulp.

"Oh!" said Marie suddenly, reappearing in the doorway, "are our guests leaving?"

"Yes," said Joe sharply as Chris squeezed past, straight towards the front door. He passed through, after pausing for a moment to turn towards Dean's parents.

"Thank you very much for your hospitality," he said, with a slight nod, before adding, "thanks for the coffee." Then he disappeared outside, quickly crossing over to the hired car.

Back in the living room, Dean had risen to his feet by now, along with Jill, who instead of heading straight for the door, walked up to him and pressed a card into his hand. He peered down at it, and saw that it was a promotion card for the Red Door Hotel in downtown Richmond. He flipped it over, and found a room number scrawled on it, along with a couple of phone numbers. "What's this...?"

"We're be in town for the next couple of weeks at least," she explained. "If you change your mind...well whatever you decide, please just tell me that you'll think about it."

"No promises," was all he said with a weak smile, but Jill still leaned in for a quick embrace, and then she was following Chris out of the house, aware that Joe and Marie Travers were watching the whole thing going on.

It took another minute or so for the two former S.T.A.R.S members to leave, as their hire car backed out into a three-point turn, and trundled away down the dirt road back towards the main road. Dean had stood on the porch, watching them go, their offer to join their little crusade still running around inside his skull. He had meant it when he said that he wanted no part in it, that he didn't want to join them- but that tiny seed of doubt had already been planted.

"So, what was all that about?" asked his father suddenly, appearing at his side.

"What?" asked Dean, distracted. "Oh, it wasn't anything important. Just catching up with some old friends and it got a little heated. Don't worry about it, dad."

"Well, if you say so," responded Joseph Travers, turning and walking back inside the house, not prying any further. Dean remained on the porch for a few more minutes, before disappearing back inside.

And seeds always bloomed in time.

**A/N: Yes, I'm back with a new update for Dead Memories- I apologise for the long wait between this chapter and the last, but I've had an awful lot going on in real life- and I've been playing a lot of new games as well- Dark Souls and Uncharted 3 in particular. The latter's a PS3 exclusive, but you should at least try it out if you have a PS3- it's most excellent.**

**In this chapter we have the first flashback segment- as I mentioned in the past update, any flashbacks/dream sequences and such will be done in italics to differentiate between the different segments. Let me know what you thought about me writing in this manner, if it could be improved, etc. **

**Anyway, you know the drill by now: R & R as normal, people. All criticism is appreciated. **


	4. Chapter 4: Milestones

Chapter 4: Milestones

**June 30****th**** 1318 hours**

'_If you tell yourself that nothing can get to you, then you're lying to yourself. At the very least all you can do is hold off the inevitable for a while, before the truth comes crashing down and pops that protective little bubble you've hidden yourself in. I found this out for myself the hard way.'_

Dean had just finished his duties for his 'day job' when he got back home, pulling the red pick-up into its usual spot beside the grain silo. He noticed that it had fallen awfully quiet- he couldn't even hear the background noise of the chickens and the other animals out back, not even Gray's barking- you could normally hear that mutt a mile off.

He popped the handbrake on and turned the key in the ignition, sighing deeply as he reclined back into his seat. It had been a tough shift today- glad that it was over, glad to be home. And he was frankly sick of being paranoid, looking over his shoulder, trying to see what people had in store for him as a surprise.

He rubbed his face, tiredly. Even since Chris and Jill's visit a few days ago, he hadn't been able to get that much sleep. It was plain to anyone observing that their showing up suddenly had dredged up those dark memories of the past- the last three years he had kept his eyes on the road in front of him, and off the rear view mirror and the road kill behind him.

Their offer kept running through his head- wanting him as part of their crusade against Umbrella. A Crusade that had a good cause, granted, but it wasn't something to be taken lightly. He guessed that Umbrella would fight tooth and nail to maintain what hold they had left over bioweapon manufacture, to the bitter end. Chris had implied as much when he explained that they were trying to buy as much time as they could with their considerable funds. The protests, the public mistrust, the pulling out of government support- it was only a matter of time until they were finished.

_They want to speed that process up- full marks for effort, but what happens when things get extreme? I just hope you know when to cut and run._

He looked up into the rear view mirror, and froze. He saw that face in the back seat again, smug smirk plastered across his face.

"Stop ignoring me Dean- you know full well where you can find me," the figure chortled.

He turned around sharply, but as ever, there was nobody back there. He sighed again and buried his face into the headrest of the driver's seat. "No Dean...not again- keep it under wraps for God's sake."

He threw the door open and clambered out, throwing it shut again briskly. He locked it up and began to pace over to the front porch, surprised that no-one had appeared to greet him or otherwise. He hopped up the steps in a couple of bounds and opened the front screen door, and then the front door proper. But as he stepped into the house, he picked up on the silence, once again.

There was always some kind of noise in the Travers household. _Always. _Whether it were the dog barking his head off, his sister singing some new song she had heard on the radio or a CD at the top of her voice, his mother pottering about in the kitchen, raucous laughter from farm hands on a break- there was always some kind of noise. Right now it was as quiet as one could imagine on a normally busy farm.

"Hello?" he called out, tentatively. "Mom, dad? Anybody home?"

When silence greeted him in response, he felt the apprehension begin to creep up his spine and slither down his chest- and soon enough cold dread had formed in the pit of his stomach, like a solid lump of lead.

He immediately made a move for the chest of drawers that was opposite the front door, crouching down and opening the bottom drawer, rummaging around inside for what he was after. Underneath an unopened blister pack of spare batteries, and the flashlight his father kept there in case of emergencies, he found a closed cigar case, made of varnished wood. After a brief moment's consideration, he flipped it open.

Inside lay a Beretta M92F 9mm handgun, a somewhat dated model at that. But there was a very particular history behind this weapon- it was the exact same weapon that had been his standard issue firearm in the R.P.D, the same weapon he had carried through the entirety of his escape from Raccoon City over those chaotic days. He'd kept it ever since then, 'just in case'. Though his family always asked whatever for, he always took the logical approach in explaining his actions- in case there was a home invasion, in case a bear wandered onto the property...

_In case a zombie breaks the front door down._

He shook his head to clear that last though away, and snatched the weapon up, pulling the slide back to ensure there was a bullet in the chamber. He always kept the pistol well-maintained, cleaning it out and polishing it as often as he did his father's double-barrelled shotgun and the old Colt .45 handgun the old man kept as a reminder of his Vietnam days. Suitably armed, Dean slid the drawer shut and stood up straight, handgun held down at his side.

He crept down the main hallway towards the lounge, the Beretta stirring nervously at his side. Ever since Chris and Jill's visit, he couldn't get the image out of his head of covert Umbrella agents watching his every move from afar, waiting to see if he would act in any way against them. And he couldn't help but dread they had burst into his home while he had been out and murdered his loved ones, waiting for him so they could finish the whole Travers family off.

He reached the doorway into the lounge and paused beside it, back against the wall, taking a few deep breaths to compose himself. And then he spun around into the open doorway, the handgun raised high to take a killing shot.

Thankfully the lounge was empty. Much more thankfully, he noticed that the table had been moved into the very centre of the lounge, and in the very middle of the table, surrounded by glass bowls containing a number of other snacks, was a large chocolate cake. With exactly 29 lit birthday candles set in it.

"Oh man," he said quietly, quickly straightening up and tucking the Beretta into the back of his jeans waistband, pulling his jacket over to conceal it. Another second later, there was a hustle of activity as several people suddenly burst into the lounge from all directions, shouting out.

"_Happy Birthday, Dean!"_

The lights went on, and then he finally saw the birthday banner which had been stretched across the far side of the ceiling, as well as the wide smiling faces of his family and friends who had gathered to wish him many happy returns.

"Oh God," he said, laughing, "I'll admit it- you got me there. Very clever."

"We did say we would get you," smiled Lisa, as she gave him a friendly embrace, and then passed him a small package wrapped in bright red wrapping paper. "Happy Birthday, big bro."

"Yeah, many happy returns and all of that," added Travis Pattinson, practically forcing his own present into Dean's almost full hands. "That's from me and Cam both."

Travis and Cameron Arnold, alongside Ben, were Dean's oldest friends, with them all having first met back in High School. Travis was blonde and muscular- the star player on Riverview's local football team, the Riverview Otters- whereas Cameron was more of a scholarly character with dark hair and glasses, who worked at the local library and spent half of his spare time with his face buried in books. The two of them would often come to visit Dean and Ben when they lived in Raccoon City, and had also been on their way when the Outbreak had originally happened. Though stranded outside of the city for most of the outbreak, they had their own little adventure in the woods surrounding the city- and Cameron had nearly had a close call from an army trooper who was feeding information to Umbrella people outside of the refugee camp.

Since then, the pair of them had always been there for Dean- a constant presence in his life that helped to keep him grounded in all of the madness that swirled about him in the wake of the outbreak.

"Thanks," smiled Dean as he ripped the paper off, and saw that it was a bottle of fine malt whisky- Dean wasn't a massive drinker as a whole, but he did like the odd drink on the weekend with some others, and whiskey on the rocks was always a firm favourite. "Oh wow, I bet this cost you a bit."

"Yeah," responded Cameron, "so be sure to drink it all otherwise you can forget receiving a Christmas card for this year."

"I'll keep that in mind, Mr Arnold," laughed Dean as he set it aside, before Cameron passed something else to him- a tiny card in a bright red envelope.

"And here's a little something extra," the dark-haired man said, smiling slightly as Dean opened the envelope and saw the card-printed voucher inside.

"Free guitar lessons?" he asked, peering down at the coupon that Cameron had got for him. "Come on, you know I haven't played in a long time..."

"Exactly!" responded Cameron. "Come on Dean, it can't hurt to pick it up and try again. The guy stops by the library once every fortnight to teach a few of the kids, I'm sure he wouldn't mind teaching you the basics again. Even with that old model you've got stuffed away in the loft."

"If you say so," responded Dean, tucking the coupon into his back pocket. "I'll keep a hold of it," he added, and then was suddenly faced with another familiar face- a tall, thin man with dark hair and spectacles, and he recognised him as Darcy Johnson, Lisa's colleague at the Hospital in Richmond.

"Oh hey, thanks for coming Darcy," Dean said as they shook hands firmly.

"Hey, no worries," Darcy replied, "it was the least I could do in coming along to wish you well, right? Oh, and hey, I got you a present and card as well," he then added, producing another item wrapped in green and gold paper- not the cheap variety either. "Hope you enjoy it."

"Thanks a lot man," responded Dean, as he set about tearing the paper off and discarding it, but his face turned to a look of mute shock when he saw what the gift exactly was.

It was a DVD boxed set, specifically one that was boxed up in blood red cardboard, the front design depicting a demonic eyeball, yellow in colour with a red pupil, glaring up at him from behind a sheen of blood that had been splattered across the thin film that covered the eye. Written across the top in bold letters was the word 'Biohazard', and beneath that- 'The Complete Collection.'

"Pretty sweet, huh?" said Darcy with a smile. "Those are all the extended cuts as well- the definite article. Your sister mentioned that you were really into that series a while back..." Darcy's voice trailed off when he noticed that Dean was still staring down at the box cover, having not said a word since he had first unwrapped it to begin with.

"Dean? What's wrong?" asked Lisa as she reappeared, but when she saw what he was holding, she turned on Darcy quickly. "Darcy! Why the hell did you get him that?"

"Hey, what?" retorted Darcy, genuinely surprised. "You told me once how he and his friends used to love that series"-

"No, no, it's okay," said Dean hurriedly, defusing the tension that was beginning to build between his sister and Darcy. "Don't worry Lisa, I don't mind- honestly. Thanks for this Darcy, I was just surprised that you were able to get your hands on this, that's all." He set the DVD set down on the table, even as the two of them looked at him warily.

"Well...okay then," said Darcy finally. "Hope you enjoy it," he then added, before he moved elsewhere to talk to some of the other guests, leaving Dean by himself with Cameron and Travis, who had witnessed the entire little episode.

"You allright dude?" asked Travis cautiously.

"Yeah, fine," said Dean with a smile that wasn't entirely sincere. "Oh look, they're cutting the cake! Have to get the first slice of that as the birthday boy, right?" he then added, pushing in between them to head towards afformentioned cake. The two friends just looked at one another.

"What?" asked Cameron after a brief pause. Travis just shrugged wordlessly.

* * *

><p>"<em>Earlier today, the protest outside of Umbrella's Richmond HQ building took a violent turn, as Umbrella security, alongside Richmond police force officers, stepped in to break up the protesting crowds. When the crowd initially refused to cease their activities, batons and tear gas were deployed as protestors fought back. As of right now, thirteen protestors, five Umbrella security personnel, and two police officers have received urgent medical treatment at Richmond General Hospital..."<em>

Dean sighed as he lay back on his bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Most of the presents he had just received earlier in the day littered his desk and the shelves- aside from the Biohazard DVD set from Darcy, which had been stuffed away out of sight in the cupboard beneath the TV set. As long as he didn't have that bloody eye on the front staring at him, he'd feel a little better.

The TV set continued to show the news report on the almost-riot outside of Umbrella's Richmond HQ. It had been a common scene across the entire world ever since the Raccoon City incident. And not just towards Umbrella- the pharmaceutical giant had been one of the principal board members on the Global Pharmaceutical Consortium, the global conglomerate that represented the interests of every pharmaceutical corporation in the world- but towards every other company that was within the G.P.C. And the longer that the legal case rumbled on, the more it hurt the G.P.C's reputation and business.

"Crazy day, huh?" said Lisa, who had suddenly materialized within the doorway of his room. He sat up in surprise, running a hand through his hair.

"Yeah, you could say that," he responded. "Who would have thought that Cam could be such a crazy dancer after only two drinks?"

She chuckled. "That wasn't what I was talking about," she explained. "I saw that look on your face when Darcy gave you that boxed set"-

"Hey, forget about it," he said, waving it off. "Darcy's a good guy, I know he only meant well. Next time you see him, tell him that there's no hard feelings."

"That's good to know," she nodded. "But you do realise this time next year you'll be halfway to sixty, right?"

"Very funny," said Dean glibly, swinging himself off of the bed and flicking the TV off with a push of the power button beneath the screen. "That riot down at the Richmond Umbrella building- what a mess."

"Tell me about it," she replied with a sigh, "a few people came in when I was on shift earlier today. Those Umbrella security guys really did a number on them. One guy had been hit so hard with a baton he'd fractured his skull. When I left he was going into surgery. Poor kid barely looked old enough to be in college."

Dean just shook his head. He was pretty sure Umbrella's armada of lawyers were already preparing a defence to get that security guard responsible off without even a slap on the wrist. Everything about their continued existence was a mockery.

"I'll be heading out with dad in a bit," Lisa announced suddenly, as she turned to leave. "We're heading into town for a bit to visit the General Store. Anything you want us to get?"

"Uh, no, I'm good," he replied. "I'll probably just get a bit of shut-eye," he then added, sitting back down on the bed and stretching wide with his arms above his head.

"Allright then," she replied. "See you later, sleepyhead," she finished, walking away out of sight and down the stairs. Dean listened to her feet clomping on the wood, and then a door opened and shut somewhere.

He then lay back on the bed, arms folded across the front of his chest. His eyes stared up at the ceiling, tracing the swirls in the ceiling paper they had put up many years beforehand, before he had moved out of this house for the first time. Soon enough, he felt his eyes slowly droop and then shut entirely, and he found himself drifting off into blissful sleep.

But he was never that lucky.

* * *

><p><em>Like all the other nightmares, he felt like a ghost floating outside of the normal scope of reality- as though he were sinking in water, trying desperately to break the surface. But this one was unique in the manner of the place he found himself in.<em>

_He was stood just outside of the entry into a run-down apartment building, built of red brick that was badly weathered and crumbling in places. A set of stone gargoyles overlooked the building's front facade, their ugly grimaces peering down at him with equal parts contempt and curiosity. _

_He heard a deep sigh suddenly, and he looked up to see a man walk into view, dressed in the uniform of the Raccoon Police Department, even wearing the familiar dark navy peaked cap. Only when the man removed the said cap and wiped his forehead did Dean realise that it was Neil Carlsen, one of the former desk sergeants- who had died alongside his colleagues three years ago. And yet here he was, as though nothing had happened in the first place._

"_Good thing you got here, Dean," he said, as though this were just another routine day. "The DB's just inside. Jesus, it's a mess- I hope that you've already eaten your lunch." With that said, he stood off to the side, leaving the corridor unblocked. _

_Knowing full well that he never had any free reign in these cases, Dean stepped forwards, past the sergeant, and down the passage, lined with dozens of identical doors, peeling posters and sheets of paper pinned to the walls, and the odd cork message board which was completely empty. _

_He soon found the one open room at the very end of the corridor, and stepped inside, the smell of freshly spilt blood and decay reaching into his nostrils. He sighed and stared down at the covered form at his feet, a white sheet draped over, exposing just the head, a lot of blood streaming from an all-too recent gunshot wound to the left temple. Ben Campbell;s eyes were shut, almost tranquil in death._

"_What a damned shame," sighed Neil Carlsen, having suddenly appeared at Dean's shoulder. "So young...now look at him. You're the only one who can solve this Dean. To find the killer, you shouldn't look at others- you have to look inside yourself."_

_Dean didn't have much chance to consider Neil's cryptic statement, before the entire scene seemed to shift and ripple around him, almost like a pebble that had been thrown into a pool of water. Then he was standing within one of the eastern corridors in the RPD building, directly beside the notice board where the shift patterns and tables were pinned up for all to consider and add their names to if possible. _

_He heard footsteps approaching, and glanced up to see Chief Irons approaching, his freshly-pressed and washed official police uniform looking several sizes too small for him as usual, a steaming mug of coffee in one hand._

"_Ah, Office Travers," he said when he finally noticed Dean. "Good to see you. They've got the prime suspect for Officer Campbell's murder down in the interrogation room now. You'd better get down there and see this through."_

_With that said, the police chief's phantom continued on his way, disappearing from view as he passed through the blue double doors into the east office. Dean just watched for a while, knowing full well that in reality the stress of the outbreak drove Chief Irons to murdering his own officers like some sick game. He swore he heard the obese man laugh out in an almost maniacal tone, but just as quickly shook it off, before turning and heading towards the interrogation room. He knew the exact path well, having walked it countless times in the past._

_The U-shaped corridor through the next door wasn't abandoned either, as he picked his way past many more R.P.D officers, all of them who had perished during the outbreak. He saw Marvin Branagh, most of his torso soaked with blood, alongside Edward Elliot, looking as though his throat had been cut, blood gushing down the front of his torso like a waterfall, just watching him with vacant eyes. He saw at least a dozen other familiar faces in the thronging crowd that pressed in around him in that narrow space, all of them wearing some form of fatal injury. _

"_Look at him," hissed one voice out of view, "who does he think he is, walking around in one piece?"_

"_He should have stood and died with the rest of us."_

"_Doesn't have the spine to sacrifice it all."_

_The voices continued, barbed and accusing, as he pushed himself further and further forwards, through any gaps he could find in the seething bodies, desperate to reach the solid steel door that marked the interrogation room. His heart rate increased, the voices sinking in and sending daggers of ice into his heart, his resolve breaking down. Soon enough he was within reach, and he lunged forwards, crashing inside._

_The heavy door slammed shut behind him, drowning out the accusatory voices. The interrogation room of the R.P.D was a cold, concrete-forged cell that only seemed colder with the inclusion of the heavy steel table, chairs, and the shelves at the far side laden with all kinds of random detritus. The massive one-way mirror was in its usual place as well, but he saw something else that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end._

_He saw what could have been the reflection of someone standing inside the room with him, their back turned on him. But he knew fine well that he was the only person in the interrogation room, and the reflection was in the wrong place to belong to him. _

_Fear slithered down his chest and spine, and suddenly he felt the cold, numbing steel of the Beretta in his hand. He stepped forwards, held the pistol up, aiming it towards the glass, the figure whipping around to literally mirror his own moves._

"_Freeze! R.P.D!" he called out, almost on instinct. However, his tone was still wavering somewhat when he saw who he was facing exactly._

_It was like looking in a distorted fairground mirror of himself: his doppelganger wore the exact same R.P.D uniform as he currently was, but the manner in which he carried himself was noticeably different- he was far more confident and cocky in his demeanour, a sly grin turning the edges of his mouth up, a faint twinkle in his eye. His hair was messy and greasy, as though it hadn't been washed in a while. And the top button of his shirt was undone, something that he himself never did during his police career._

"_What's the matter?" he asked with his half-sneer. "We're all guilty of something if you look close enough."_

_And with that, he pulled the trigger. Dean threw himself to the side as three shots punched through the glass, shattering it in an instant, embedding into the far concrete wall. By the time he had straightened back up, the door flew open and his Doppelganger was gone into the hallway, footsteps echoing away into the distance._

"_Wait!" he called out, bursting through the door on his side of the room, coming to a dead halt as he realised that the walls and everything else was twisting and shifting around him once again. "Oh God," he whispered, "what this time?"_

_The peeling paint and the linoleum floor of the R.P.D corridor faded away, replaced with a cold, industrial environment, power cables and steam pipes running across the full length of the ceiling, the walls plastered with countless danger warning signs and health and safety notices. Somewhere above his head, a massive fan sounded with its distinctive 'thum-thum-thum' repeat. _

_He began to walk forwards, following the only path open to him. He passed by open doorways that just lead out into gaping, black voids in the endless abyss- standing out in the darkness he could discern human shapes, just watching him pass by with muted interest. He recognised the faces and uniforms of U.B.C.S troopers, sent into the meat grinder of Raccoon City purely for their employer's own needs._

_He slowed down when he heard another sound from just ahead of him- almost like someone singing softly to themselves, a tune that he didn't recognise. He rounded a sharp bend in the passage and came to another halt when he saw a figure in the all-too familiar R.P.D uniform sat sprawled up against another wall, which had morphed from cold steel and piping into dry brick and concrete in a gradual shift. The crop of red hair and the green eyes identified him as David Ford, one of the more well-known beat officers- also a known alcoholic, but he was very canny never to be caught drinking at work. _

_Right now, he was swigging something that smelt pretty strong from a small steel flask, while a Mossberg shotgun was laid across his crossed legs. _

"_David?" asked Dean cautiously, lowering his pistol. _

"_It doesn't matter," slurred David, taking a long swig of his flask, head tilted right back. He then bought his face forwards and shook his head a few times. "The rest of them are always butting heads over what to do next- we're all fucking screwed, even I know that." _

"_What are you...?"_

"_We're all dead!" snapped David suddenly, wrapping his right hand around the pistol grip of his shotgun. "We couldn't handle anything like this...not an outbreak of those...zombies. Meyer's dead- I could have saved him, repay him for saving my skin the last time, but I didn't. I ran- I just ran for my life like a scared little shit. I can still hear him screaming"-_

_Dean just stood by as the officer began to break down into tears. Dean himself had seen both Ford and Meyer at the barricade on Raccoon Street during the outbreak himself, but he had seen neither of their deaths personally- he assumed they had both been killed one way or another by the monsters which had flooded the city. He imagined this was a trick of his fertile imagination._

_David threw his head back again and shook the flask held over his wide-open mouth. Nothing came out, not even a single drop, and he sighed before tossing the flask away from him down the corridor._

"_Well, don't matter anymore," he said, picking the Mossberg up in both hands and lifting it up slightly. "We're all good as dead. What about Dean? What exactly have you accomplished since then?"_

_Dean was just starting to realise the implications of David Ford's last words when the officer swung the weapon about, pushed the barrel up against the underside of his chin, and pulled the trigger._

_The booming retort of the shotgun was like a slap to the face for Dean, and the former R.P.D officer actually cried out and fell back against the wall, staring down in horror at the man's slumped body, refusing to focus on the fact half of his skull was now liquidised and sprayed up the wall behind him-_

_BAM!_

_The gunshot made him duck down quickly, the bullet deflecting off of the wall just above where his head had been moments earlier. At the far end of the passage, he saw his Doppelganger once more, stood in a classic shooter's stance. He fired off two more warning shots down the passage, and then turned to flee._

"_I've been framed!" he called out as he vanished from sight. Having no time to dwell on the phantom's words, he jumped to his feet and raced down the passage as fast as he could manage, not realising that David Ford's body had vanished mysteriously. The walls segued back into the familiar cold steel surroundings of the underground Umbrella facility, as he caught glimpses of his Doppelganger staying just one step ahead, vanishing around corners and through open thresholds. _

"_Stay still, you bastard!" cried Dean, more in annoyance than anything else. Only an insane laugh greeted him in response, and then he was suddenly stumbling into a huge open room, the far wall lined with a number of massive glass tubes that were all too familiar to him. Inside the clear fluid floated the familiar outlines of the scaly horrors known as Hunters, alongside other horrific beings he didn't care to know the names of._

_Another familiar figure appeared in the centre of the room, casually holding a H&K P8 handgun in his hands. He wore a tattered dress suit, the tie missing and the top button on the shirt undone, while his receding hair was a sandy blonde colour, his eyes a disturbing beige colouration. Malcolm Donovan, the former supervisor of Umbrella's Delta Research and Storage Facility, watched him, unblinking._

"_Do you see now, Dean?" he asked suddenly, his voice echoing throughout the chamber and the sprawling passages. _

"_See what?" retorted Dean, playing along with the phantom's question. _

"_What I told you about humanity's fragility," the phantom responded. "Your friend died that day, didn't he? Even after all you did to try and save him. And now, three years later, you still can't get over the fact that he's dead."_

"_That's not true."_

"_Then why are we here?" Donovan asked, arms spread wide. "Why are you stuck in this place you've conjured from your own broken mind, talking to someone who's been dead for three years?"_

_Dean fell silent, having no clue on even how he should begin to answer that query. He always assumed that he had escaped that necropolis with his sanity fairly intact, but the constant nightmares, the visions, the doubts- it all suggested otherwise. Was he just a coin's flip away from having a mental break?_

_A sudden rumbling filled the room, and another, much large figure materialized beside Donovan. It was the Tyrant, the same one that had attacked them in the facility to begin with three years back, unleashed accidently by Donovan. Unlike then though, its appearance was much more monstrous now, perhaps to reflect its appearance within the nightmare. Great horns curved out from its forehead, while its eyes blazed a fiery red. Fresh blood splattered its gloves and the front of its trench coat. It just stood beside Donovan obediently, breathing slowly and intently._

_A broken, twisted body lay just behind the Tyrant, just visible past the creature's flanks. A body that was all too familiar to Dean. _

"_I thought so," sneered Donovan, walking slowly to stand on the Tyrant's right side. "You called me a monster, but you're no different from me- from anyone of us who work for Umbrella."_

"_That's a lie," growled Dean._

"_Is it?" snapped Donovan savagely. "Your best friend and partner died because you couldn't save him in time! Can you imagine that pain he went through in his last hour of life? The broken bones"-_

"_Shut up..." _

"_-the punctured lung, the massive internal bleeding"-_

"_I said shut up!"_

"_-the crushing fear that his life was about to run out, and all the while you never did a thing to help him?"_

"_I said shut up!" screamed Dean, whipping his Beretta up and pulling the trigger. The gunshot rang out, and Donovan's head snapped back from the force of the bullet hitting him between the eyes, but he didn't hit the ground. Rather, he just stumbled back, regaining his footing a few seconds later. His head whipped around to glare at Dean, the fresh blood from the bullet wound still gleaming on his forehead._

"_Denial is a terrible thing," the phantom leered. "You can't run forever Dean. You have to face what you've done sooner or later."_

_As if on cue, the screech of police sirens cut through the air, prompting Dean to spin around, trying to find the source of the noise. Donovan's mouth curled up into another arrogant sneer._

"_Well, right on schedule," he laughed. "You'd better be ready to pay the price."_

_And with that, the scene changed once more, Dean feeling himself pulled out of the cold steel corridors, and finding himself standing in the middle of an open street, his hands raised and held behind his head, assuming the classic submission pose as demanded by police officers. About 20 yards in front of him, a pair of R.P.D cruisers had set up a road-block, and behind them stood nearly a dozen R.P.D officers, weapons drawn and fixed on him. Chief Irons stood amongst them in his official uniform, holding a megaphone._

"_Dean Travers!" bellowed the voice of the Chief through the megaphone, "surrender yourself and lie down on the ground, now!" _

_Dean's heart rate began to pick up again, more especially when he glanced to his left and up at the massive advertising billboard that hung above an anonymous brick building. Instead of some type of advert, he saw a picture of himself- more specifically, the picture that was taken on his first day with the R.P.D, to add onto their officer's database. Except now it looked more like a mugshot, an ominous statement scrawled beneath it._

_EVERYONE I CARE ABOUT DIES_

_He looked back towards the barricade, and saw that Chief Irons had faded away into nothing, replaced by his own cackling Doppelganger, the megaphone still clutched in his right hand. He raised it up and shouted into the speaker end._

"_Run, Travers, run!" he called out, adding another insane laugh into the mix. As the guns of the R.P.D officers were showing no sign of being lowered, he did the only other thing he could think of. He turned and ran in the opposite direction, as fast as his legs could take it._

"_Damn it! Open fire, open fire!" barked a voice, and then the discharge of their weapons was heard, the muzzle flashes just brief bursts of light within the suffocating darkness. Every shot went wide though, almost as though they were missing him on purpose. Bullets whistled past his ears, deflected off of walls and the tarmac, or even just passed over his head by several feet. The barricade had long disappeared behind him into the darkness, leaving him free-_

_-but then he quickly skidded to a halt as two more figures suddenly materialized in front of him, shoving their pistols into his face. He shook his head rapidly as he backed away slowly. "No...no, no, no, not you guys too..."_

_Chris Redfield and Jill Valentine stood before him, dressed in their S.T.A.R.S uniforms, correct down to the very last details, their customised Samurai Edge 9mm handguns in their hands. They both stared at him with impassive, accusing eyes, as though his crime was already fully known to them._

"_I'm sorry Dean," sighed Chris, his aim not wavering, "but we have to do this. You're a fugitive murder, a cop-killer- and you fled from the police. We've got full right to shoot you where you stand."_

"_It's a real shame," added Jill casually, "you were always a pretty decent guy Dean. Ben didn't deserve what happened to him."_

"_Jesus, I didn't"-_

"_Don't bother trying to deny it," retorted Chris, cutting Dean off mid-sentence. "We've got you bang to rights- you're going down one way or another." Dean just continued to back away, slowly shaking his head, feeling the pain of his guilt starting to irritate the side of his skull. He wanted to dig inside his head and scrape out the pain. He settled for putting his hand up against his temple, groaning softly._

"_You see how it is?" asked his Doppelganger, appearing behind Chris and Jill suddenly. "Something like killing a fellow cop never leaves you. How the hell do you live with yourself?"_

"_Shut up!" snapped Dean, taking another tentative step backwards. "You're the same as me! Why don't you ask yourself?"_

"_Me?" laughed the Doppelganger, "I've got no regrets, nothing to feel guilty about. I didn't kill my best friend, after all." Dean shook his head again, trying to shut out his evil twin's words. _

"_How about we just shoot him now?" suggested Jill suddenly, almost sounding pleased with herself. "After all, he's a cop-killer. We can just say in the report that he tried to make a run for it."_

"_Hey, that sounds like a plan," agreed Chris, sounding almost giddy, even as Dean's expression turned from shock to outright horror, their eyes turning to face him once more. _

"_Hey, just wait a minute"- he began._

_The pistols fired._

* * *

><p>Dean sat bolt-upright on his bed, letting out a gasp of stifled air.<p>

It took him a few seconds to realise that he was back in his bedroom, on the family farm, and not about to be executed in cold blood by two former S.T.A.R.S members. He sighed in relief and sat forward, burying his head in his hands.

It was getting worse- the nightmares. Ever since Chris and Jill's visit, inadvertently reminding him of the Raccoon City Outbreak, and Umbrella's other past evils, had filled his head with plenty of dark ideas and implications that his dreams could latch onto and twist into horrific nightmares. The exact dreams were always different, but the individual elements- being pursued by the R.P.D, chasing after his smirking doppelganger, having conversations with dead figures from the past- were all constant.

"Dean!" called his father's voice suddenly from out in the hall, and he nearly jumped out of his skin as he turned to face the doorway. A second later, Joseph appeared in the doorway. "You allright son? You were making a lot of noise in your sleep just now."

"Yeah...I'm fine dad," he responded, rubbing his face. "It was another...nightmare."

"I see," nodded Joseph, "a bad one?" he then inquired. "Because if you want to talk about, you know full well that we're all here for you."

Dean held up his hand. "Yeah...I appreciate it dad, but I don't feel like talking about it right now. No offence."

"None taken," said Joseph, raising his own hands, "I was just saying. By the way, it's nearly three in the afternoon. You must have been tuckered out after your birthday party."

"Really?" asked Dean in surprise. "I guess I was. You know I'm seeing Cam and Travis tonight for a few drinks, right?"

"Yeah, I do know," responded Joseph, "just try not to upset anyone like you did last time, ok?"

"Hey, that wasn't my fault!" retorted Dean with a smile. "I can't be trusted to watch Cam 24/7- how was I to know that blonde he tried to talk with had a boyfriend who happened to be in a biker gang?"

"If you say so," replied Joseph, not sounding fully convinced a she disappeared from view down the hall. "We're having corn and potato croquettes for dinner tonight- try not to miss that, you hear?" he then called out, clomping down the stairs.

Dean was still smiling slightly once his father was long gone, but then he stood up and stretched his arms above his head, before he moved forwards to clear away some of his presents. Looking over it, he knew full well that most of this stuff he'd never use and would be rid of by next year- of course, without telling whoever had bought the gift in the first place. That Biohazard box set was probably the most likely candidate.

He shifted a thick hardback novel that someone had got for him, and he uncovered the journal that had been given to him by Doctor Monroe some days beforehand. It hadn't been touched since the day he had dumped it onto his desk- a thin coat of dust had already gathered upon it. He'd forgotten entirely about it ever since Chris and Jill had visited, but with what he had just endured...

_Perhaps it would be a good idea to start on this..._

He eased himself into the chair and opened the front cover, exposing the blank first page. He stared at it for a long while, going over what he was going to write. At the very least, thinking about the journal took his mind off of that damned nightmare he had just had. He still had the lingering afterimage of Chris and Jill holding him at gunpoint, suggesting they just shoot him on the spot. Or that billboard, its scrawled message spelling out one of his deepest, darkest impressions of self-loathing.

He picked up the black biro finally, the one with the badly chewed end. He continued to stare down at the paper for a while, and then finally the pen came down, and he scrawled a quick statement on the top line of the paper.

_My name is Dean Travers._

He leaned back and sighed, realising how stupid that sounded when read in hindsight. But he had to start somewhere at least, and it showed who it belonged to as well. He then began to write once again, the words flowing much more freely, feeling the emotions and everything else bottled up within his head flowing out. Finally, he had some kind of release.

By the time he had put the pen down and headed back downstairs to help his mother clear the house up, he'd written out nearly ten pages.

* * *

><p><strong>July 2<strong>**nd ****1054 hours**

"This is dispatch, we've just had a tip that there's an assault in progress outside of the old storage warehouse on River's Lane, over."

"10-4, I'm not too far from there, I'll check it out, over."

"10-4 Dean."

He hung the radio mouth-piece back onto the dashboard, smoothed down the front of his shirt to ensure that he hadn't got any stains on it, and then wound the window down to dispose of the ice-cream carton that was on the vacant passenger's seat. This was the Day Job.

About a year and a half ago, the town's sheriff had mentioned to Joseph that John Yates, one of the longest-serving deputies in the Riverview Police Department, was retiring and moving back North to be with his family. And since Dean was one of the only people in town who had prior experience as a law enforcement officer...naturally they were chasing him to fill the vacant spot. Though Dean hardly wanted to jump back into that line of work- considering how well his spell with the R.P.D had ended- in the end he had relented, under the suggestion that doing so would give him something else to pass his time with for three days a week- sometimes more if needed. And so here he was.

His uniform as a member of the Riverview Police Department (four bodies in total) consisted of a light brown shirt with short sleeves, black pants and boots, and a dark brown jacket with a fur lining that was donned on colder days, and the utility belt that held all of the tools he would need in enforcing the law- a set of handcuffs, a can of pepper spray, spare ammo magazines, and the choice weapon of the Riverview P.D- a Colt M1911 .45 handgun, a much larger calibre than the Berettas used by the Raccoon police.

Most of these things he barely used in the day-to-day duties- Riverview was a tiny place with a population of just over 400 people, and as such the police work was more about helping others out, maintaining a strong community spirit. The only time he had drawn his weapon was a few months back when a pair of men suspected of robbing a jewellery store in Richmond were spotted at the local diner, and he headed there to bring them in- only for a hostage situation to develop when they took the diner owner and a few patrons hostage. In the end he was able to talk them both down, and the Colt remained unfired.

He still frequented the shooting range every two weeks though, just to ensure that his skills remained sharp and didn't go rusty. Just in case.

He turned the key in the ignition, and pulled the black and white police cruiser out of the parking lot of the fast-food establishment he had just stopped in for his break. The place was actually on River Lane itself, outside of the little town, on the road towards Richmond. The warehouse where the dispatch call referred to was on the opposite end of the road, on the route towards Charlottesville instead. There used to be a fairly large industrial estate in that area, but it had remained empty and derelict for over a year now, frequented by homeless vagrants and young kids looking to made themselves a private den to hang out with their friends.

As he drove the cruiser through the middle of town, he passed by the numerous local people who's faces had become ingrained within his subconscious by now. They all waved and smiled when they recognised who he was, and he returned the gesture with a smile and wave of his own. Riverview was only a small town, so everyone knew everyone else, knew all of the gossip- the community spirit was something to be proud of, to say the least.

It didn't take him long to reach the warehouse itself, and he pulled the cruiser into the front parking lot, which was practically deserted. The warehouse itself was a sorry-looking building, three stories high, box-shaped, built from solid concrete. Most of its windows had been smashed out or boarded over, and crude graffiti had been daubed on a couple of the lower walls. The main entrance, a pair of drab-coloured heavy doors, had been left half-open, no doubt by the last people who had passed through here. Aside from the doors, there was no other sign of a human presence being here, despite the initial report of an assault in progress.

He threw the cruiser door open and stepped outside, just looking up at the building in question. He swore, if this was all some hoax just to waste his time, then someone would be in hot water when he found out who they were-

BAM! BAM!

A pair of gunshots suddenly ripped through the relative calm, and he quickly ducked down behind the still-open cruiser door, using it as a cover point as he drew the Colt M1911 and grabbed for the radio unit with his other hand. "This is Deputy Travers!" he called into the mouthpiece, "shots fired at the old warehouse! I repeat, shots fired at the old warehouse! I need backup."

"S-shots fired?" asked the somewhat shaky voice of Perry Arnold, the deputy who was on dispatch duty for today. "Okay, okay, I'll send the word out, get the others there soon as we can."

"_No! No please, don't!"_

That voice had come from inside the building- a male voice to be specific, raised a few octaves through sheer terror. Dean couldn't tell where exactly it had come from, but there wouldn't be much time to debilitate if someone was in danger.

"Looks like we got a hostage situation as well," he then said into the radio, "there's no time to wait, I'm going in." And with that, he put the radio back in its place, slammed the door shut, and racked back the slide on the Colt to make sure there was a round chambered. He then hurried forwards in a crouch-run posture, into the open doors of the warehouse.

Inside it was musty, a thick layer of dust coating every surface, from the walls and debris-strewn floor to the broken office furniture that had been left behind from when the building had first been condemned. There was a dampness in the air as well, and he could see the odd patch of mildew and lichen on the exposed brick in places. The boarded-up windows had also plunged the building into inky darkness, and he found himself pulling out the small penlight on his belt, sweeping it around to slice through the blackness. The light wasn't as powerful as a household torch was, but it still gave him just enough to see what was in the immediate vicinity.

Old wooden floorboards creaked somewhere above his head, and he jerked about, the torch beam fixing on the ceiling.

"_Help!"_

"Second floor," he whispered, sweeping the beam about on a horizontal plane, exposing a sign which directed him towards the stairwell, the sign itself hanging down as one of the screws attaching it to the wall had rusted through. He passed through into the stairwell, and nearly tripped over the office chair that had been dumped on the lower landing, upside down, its feet missing.

He managed to squeeze past the chair and carefully picked his way up the wooden stairs, a few of them bending dangerously beneath his weight as he proceeded. A few more had simply caved in already, exposing gaping black pits into whatever lay beneath amongst the building's foundations.

The landing up to the third floor had been blocked off by another pile of broken and rotted wood and office furniture, leaving him only to proceed out onto the second floor. Up here, the second floor had once been an office floor, divided into individual cubicles- most of them were still standing, giving the impression of a man-made labyrinth that an armed perp could be hiding behind at any turn.

"Riverview Police," he called out, scanning his torch beam back and forth slowly as he stepped out of the stairwell doorway, onto the floor space proper. "I'm here to help- if you can hear me, just give me some kind of sign."

A faint murmur greeted him in response, from somewhere ahead. Almost like someone whimpering in fear, or even groaning in pain.

"Hello?" he called again, his concern for an innocent life overriding any fear that an armed perp could be hiding in any number of shadows within this floor space. He took a tentative step forwards, and then a couple more, and he caught glimpse of what looked to be someone's leg poking out from being a cubicle partition.

"Crap!" he cursed in a harsh whisper, rushing forwards, clipping the torch back onto his belt, though the M1911 remained in his right hand, ready to be drawn in a moment's notice. He crouched beside the body he found, of what looked to be a man about his size, wearing jeans and a brown jacket, face down on the floor, unmoving. "Hey, are you okay? Can you hear me?"

The figure didn't move at all, so instead he gently took hold of the man by the right shoulder and gently rolled him over onto his back. Though initially surprised at how little the figure resisted, it was nothing compared to his shock when he finally looked upon the man's face.

"What the hell?"

He found himself staring down into the blank face of department store mannequin- empty eyes and pale lips, and all. And taped to the front of its chest was what looked like a tape recorder, its tape reels turning slowly, issuing a slight crackle as it played dead air. He pushed in the recorder's stop button, and then quickly rewound it, watching the tape inside quickly ravel itself up, and then resuming its play as he released the rewind button.

"_No! No please don't!"_

It was the exact same cry he had heard before walking into the warehouse. Even the wording was exactly the same. On the one hand it could have been some elaborate prank by local trouble makers, having their laughs at the expense of a local deputy. But on the other hand- Chris's words replayed in his mind, about Umbrella having been watching them ever since Raccoon City-

He stood up straight and turned, just as a red laser sight swept out of the shadows and planted itself on his forehead.

**A/N: And here we have the latest update for Dead Memories. First off, I'd like to apologise for the long wait in between this update and the last, I've been really busy with other stuff. **

**With regards to this chapter itself, it skips around a little in relation to the dates that the events take place on- that was kinda on purpose because I didn't want to waste too much time on somewhat mundane events and to move the story along- I want to get to the semi-exciting bits in good time. **

**Also, Dean's extended dream/nightmare sequence in this chapter is largely inspired by the similar sequences that are in Max Payne 1 and 2- both pretty old games, but very good for it, with the nightmares forming one of the more memorable parts of each game, giving you more of an insight into Max's inner thoughts and feelings. A few of the lines from this chapter are also taken from the Max Payne series, including the part where Dean wants to 'dig inside his skull and scrape out the pain', so I just want to make clear that I did borrow those lines, but I claim no ownership or rights to them whatsoever. And as it happens, Max Payne 3 is due to come out in the March coming- about damn time too. **

**Anyways, you know the deal- R & R as usual please.**

**Oh, and a Happy 2012 to everybody on the site! I hope that whatever happens 2012 is a good year for you.**


	5. Chapter 5: Full Force

Chapter 5: Full Force

**July 2****nd**** 1051 hours**

'_Just like that, the bubble burst. The horrors I had been running from for so long came crashing back into my life with the force of a hurricane. And just like before, I was left fighting for my life. Ironic that I only realised how alive I was when I was dodging bullets.'_

_Fuck!_

He threw himself flat just as something whistled past his head and embedded itself into the partition wall beside him- and then promptly began to stitch the object in half from left to right in a steady rhythm. That was gunfire- suppressed gunfire, to be exact, as the only other sound he could hear above the splintering of cork and plaster and his heartbeat was a subdued clicking from somewhere close by.

He grabbed for the M1911 and swung it up, aiming in the direction that the laser sight had come from initially. He fired twice at a dark outline he could make out within the general dankness of the floor, but both bullets impacted against an office desk which had been propped up on its side instead. Wood splintered and cracked, but otherwise the gunman remained unharmed, slipping away into the shadows.

"Damn it!" he hissed, ducking back behind the partition, just as more silenced gunfire whistled past; splintering the desk he was crouched beside. The gunfire stopped again, and he strained his ears to listen for any kind of movement out of sight. But he couldn't hear anything, not even the squeak of rotted wood as feet moved about. Whoever was after him was very good-

Two more laser sights suddenly materialized and came at him, and he was just about able to throw himself in the opposite direction to avoid a renewed hail of gunfire, before the first shooter joined in, punching a series of holes through the partition where his head had been moments beforehand. He scrambled around desperately in the dirt-caked floor for any kind of advantage, but he none besides his new plastic friend.

_Doubt you'll help much..._

He struggled to his knees and ducked around the side of another partition that hadn't been destroyed by the mystery gunmen yet, but it was only a matter of time until it too was gone. He peeked out from behind his cover, catching a glimpse of a figure moving from out of a doorway he had passed by when he first entered the floor. Immediately, he swung the Colt up and fired.

His aim was as true as it could be- he clearly saw the figure shudder as the bullet smacked into the centre of his torso, saw him stumble backwards, but remaining on his feet.

_So the bastards are wearing body armour?_

He fired two more shots into the reeling figure. The second one smacked the figure further backwards, almost off of his feet, and the last shot must have hit some unarmoured part of the man's body, as there was a strangled shout and a burst of fluid from his throat, before he hit the ground hard like a sack of sand.

Dean ducked back into cover before a retaliatory volley came back to him, but he heard nothing else. The other gunmen didn't even yell out at the fact that one of their number had been cut down in short order. They clearly didn't want to give away their positions to their opponent.

He heard a creak of wood, and saw a glimpse of another figure darting past another doorway about 20 yards ahead of him. He quickly scooted across behind another set of partitions, just as more gunfire punched through where he'd been hiding a short while beforehand. He peered out from behind the partition, and saw the barest glimpse of a human outline darting through the shadows. He didn't take the shot, knowing that it was a risky move to take in the best of conditions anyway.

He grabbed for his radio instead, intending to call it in, explain the situation, in case the others were trying to get a hold of him. He flicked the transmit switch and spoke into the receiver. "This is Dean- I'm pinned down in the old warehouse, at least three shooters with automatic weapons...can anyone hear me?"

He released the transmit button, and all he heard was a crackle and whine of static. Brow furrowed, he depressed the button again. "This is Dean, does anyone hear me?" He couldn't help but let the urgency creep into his voice as he spoke. He was certain that in raising his voice he had given away his position to the shooters.

Normally the radio link to the Riverview Police Department was crystal clear to within at least 10 miles of the town itself. He was just outside of the main town centre, so there was no way there would be a poor connection where he was. The only other thing he could think of was that his aggressors were jamming the radio signal somehow so that he was left isolated without help. These guys were getting more and more professional by the second.

He caught a glimpse of movement just to his right, and he turned as quickly as he dared to see one of the shooters framed in a bright spot between the ink-like shadows that seemed to fill the warehouse interior. His weapon was raised, laser beam starting to home in.

"Fuck!" Dean called, whipping the M1911 up with both hands, and pulling the trigger rapidly. The first two shots erupted loudly within the warehouse, but both shots struck the shooter in the armoured torso, not hurting him, but hitting hard enough to knock him back, clean off of his feet. He crashed through a pile of rotted wood, throwing up dust and splinters. The remaining trigger pulls only elicited empty clicks from the handgun, the slide locking back.

"Damn it!" he cursed, fumbling for the spare magazine at his hip, pulling it from one of the magazine pouches and ejecting the spent magazine. It clattered to the floor, and he quickly slapped the fresh clip home, a quick flick of his thumb being used to snap the slide back. By then, a second shooter had appeared, and he wasted no time to opening fire on Dean.

One of his bullets struck the side of the M1911 and shattered, a hot lead fragment cutting into Dean's left eyebrow and drawing blood. He cried out on reflex, the force of the impact knocking the pistol out of his hand. It went flying away into some shadowy corner, well out of reach. Then he stumbled back as more bullets whistled past, until he heard a horrific groaning of rotten wood-

-and then the ground beneath his feet simply disappeared, as the wooden floor gave way and he plunged backwards into the gaping darkness, arms and legs flailing wildly. Thankfully, it was only a short drop to the 1st floor below, and there wasn't anything lying below for him to land on and break anything. He still hit the ground hard though, pain flaring out across his shoulders and down his spine.

He groaned in pain and rolled onto his front, somewhat glad that the concrete foundations beneath the wood had broken his fall- somewhat. He coughed a few times and let out another groan, before a shadow fell over him from above.

"Damn!" he cursed, scrambling forwards just as the gunmen opened fire again, their bullets tearing through the floorboards instead. He managed to make it through a nearby doorway, stumbling onwards into what looked like the back area of the work floor- he passed by a door still bearing a sign reading 'Break Room', and then stumbled into a room with one side lined with rusted, beaten steel lockers.

He slammed back-first against one of the walls, gasping for breath as he did so. He panted several more times, letting his heart rate decrease steadily over time, and then closed his eyes, taking a deep sigh of relief. Despite everything, he wasn't afraid at all.

It was as if the Raccoon City outbreak had removed any quota of fear that he could bring up in his life.

He heard a low thud from somewhere out in the main floor section, as one of the gunmen dropped down through the hole he had just created, closely followed by two more thuds. These guys clearly had no intention of leaving this place until he was dead, and as such hiding somewhere and waiting them out wasn't an option here- they clearly had a military level of training, and they would likely start sweeping the entire floor to find him.

He crouched down and picked up a sturdy plank of wood, about three feet in length, palming it to check its stability. It was filthy and had a few rusty nails sticking out of the end, but otherwise it would do for the near future.

He'd have to deal with these chumps the hard way.

* * *

><p>About a minute later, one of the gunmen entered the locker room silently, his boots producing almost no sound whatsoever. They must have had velvet soled boots.<p>

Otherwise, the rest of his equipment resembled something out of a Tom Clancy novel- black cargo pants, black tactical vest over black jacket, a ski mask disguising his face, a Kevlar helmet, and what looked like night vision goggles on his eyes. His weapon was a Steyr TMP, heavily modified with a laser pointer, under-mounted flash light, screw-on suppressor, and a removable shoulder stock. He advanced in short steps, his weapon constantly pressed against his shoulder snugly, ready to fire at a moment's notice.

The red laser swept back and forth through the cramped room, as the gunman side-stepped along the row, his weapon nosing into and in between every single one to check if the target was hiding himself in any of the nooks or crannies. After a couple of minutes of methodically clearing the locker room, he turned away, satisfied that the room was clear. That's when Dean made his move.

Descending from where he had propped himself up in the tiny ceiling alcove above the last two lockers in the row, he dropped onto the gunman, flattening him with his own bodyweight, and then smacking the plank he had picked up across the back of his head. The ski mask and the helmet did little to cushion the impact, and the black-clad man let out a long, tried groan as he passed out.

"Take a nap," Dean said quietly, as he quickly dragged the body over towards the radiator mounted on the wall, and then retrieved the handcuffs from his belt, cuffing the gunman to the radiator mounted on the wall at his right wrist to stop him from getting away when he woke up. He then quickly retrieved the man's TMP, checking it over and ensuring that the sights were working well. He then also relieved the unconscious body of the Beretta holstered at its right thigh, tucking it into his own holster. There was no time to retrieve any extra ammo, as he glanced over his shoulder towards the open doorway.

Armed, he was now on a more level playing field to his aggressors- at least two more that he had seen up on the second floor, unless they already had more bodies coming in to back them up. But as the radio signal was still jammed, there wasn't exactly much else he could do aside from fighting back against them.

_Come on you bastards- I'll make you regret coming after me. _

He stepped out into the hallway, sweeping the TMP side to side. Luckily, the passage was clear, but he could still hear the bustle of movement out on the main warehouse floor as the other gunmen searched for him. He figured that he'd save them the hassle and just go and find them himself to end this lethal game of tag.

He stepped out onto the main floor, and found himself standing behind one of the gunmen, standing with his back to him. There was a brief moment as the figure spun around quickly, surprised registering behind his NVG's, before Dean raised the TMPand squeezed the trigger, sending a hail of 9mm bullets into his torso at point blank range. His body armour didn't help him much, and he cried out as he was thrown off his feet, crashing through one of the old desks.

Immediately, he swung to his left to see at least three more gunmen appear out of the shadows, laser sights slicing through the darkness. With a grunt of exertion, Dean threw himself sideways as more bullets buzzed through the air like angry hornets, tearing through the abandoned partitions and other office furniture. The gunmen dropped to one knee and kept up the fire, as two more suddenly appeared from the stairwell door and moved around to the left.

_Great- they did have back-up._

Dean fired the TMP again, missing his intended targets but forcing one of them to duck down into a gutted office room, while a second threw himself flat into the debris, blindly returning fire with an outstretched arm. Dean ducked behind a concrete support pillar, even as more gunfire chipped away at it, spraying dust all over.

"Damn," whispered Dean, as he drew the Beretta in his left hand, keeping the TMP clutched in the other. "Really wish I took that day off today." Shortly afterwards, the chipping ceased, as did the rapid clicking of suppressed weapons. Somewhere over his shoulder to the right, wood creaked.

He swung out to the right, into the open, both arms raised, firing freely with both weapons. The gunman who had been trying to push forwards was taken by surprise, his torso riddled with bullets, and he went down like a sack of sand. The line of black-clad bodies at the far side of the floor provided a tempting target, and Dean swept the TMP back and forth. One more gunman went down, a bullet shattering his NVG's and dropping him in a burst of red fluid, but the others got off lucky.

The clicking TMP finally clacked dry, and he threw it to the ground, just as yet another gunman appeared to his left and fired. Thankfully his aim was slightly off, even if one of the bullets grazed Dean's right forearm, drawing blood. Teeth clenched, Dean put three shots from the Beretta through the gunman's unarmoured throat. He went down, gargling on blood. Aware that more clicking was sounding, Dean stooped and grabbed the TMP from the gunman's dead hands.

He paused in the open stairwell doorway and fired a few more shots towards the remaining gunmen, the rapid clicking of the suppressed weapon sounding ill-fitting for the heavy combat he was engaged in right now. He then stepped back and slammed the stairwell door shut, ascending the stairs back to the second floor.

"Damn it, he went back up!" cried a muffled voice.

"Get after him then!" yelled another. Having engaged them actively, the gunmen were no longer maintaining their silence as they came after him. A few moments after Dean had made his escape, the door slammed open and feet came up the stairs after him.

He sprinted back across the creaky wood of the second floor, being sure that he didn't fall back down the hole he made the first time. The gunmen were several yards behind him, one of them having discarded his TMP in favour of an Ithaca shotgun. It's deep boom was a throaty roar far above the suppressed machine pistols, the weapon loaded with deer slugs instead of the traditional buckshot. The shells were essentially solid lumps of lead designed for hunting large game- but could easily punch a three-inch hole through solid concrete and cement.

One such hole appeared in the pillar that Dean chose to hide himself behind, about four inches above his head, showering him in grey dust. He coughed as he crouched down, checking the magazine in the TMP- he had nineteen rounds left in the clip, along with seven rounds for the Beretta. He snapped the magazine back into the weapon, knowing that they would have to do for the current situation. Another deer slug ripped some more concrete out of the pillar a couple of inches away from his left ear, showing that he had to hurry up and end this fight before he was overwhelmed.

One of the gunmen had been moving up around to the pillar's right side when Dean ducked around, TMP already raised to his shoulder. He squeezed off a long burst of gunfire, and the 9mm rounds shredded the man's torso and Kevlar vest, throwing him back off of his feet. He landed in the rubble, throwing up a cloud of grey dust as he did so. His two companions swung their weapons to bear, peppering the pillar with a hail of 9mm rounds and shotgun slugs. They just stood their ground, firing relentlessly until both their weapons had clicked on empty, and the pillar had crumbled into pieces, a thick cloud of dust in the air.

"Wait!" barked the one with the shotgun, raising his arm suddenly. They both stood in silence for several seconds, just watching. Nothing moved within the dust cloud.

"Go check it out," the shotgunner ordered, as he began to load some more shells into his weapon. The other gunman hesitated for a couple of seconds, and then he stepped forwards, snapping a fresh magazine into the weapon. He circled around the side of the crumbled pillar, but didn't see their target- though he did see the spent shell casings and some voids in the dust on the floor.

He turned his head towards his companion, nudging his head in the direction of the back of the floor. The shotgunner nodded, and then he began to trudge forwards slowly to follow through. The two of them covered one side of the floor each, nosing into every dark nook and cranny. Their NVG's painted everything in varying shades of green, enough to distinguish a human hiding within the pitch blackness.

The TMP gunner suddenly stopped in his tracks when his boot clicked against something on the floor. Stopping suddenly, he looked down, and saw the glint of something metallic among the dust and debris. He stooped down to pick it up, and revealed a Colt M1911 handgun- the same weapon that their target had dropped prior to his falling through the floor. Speaking of which, said hole was only a few feet away from where he was currently stood.

He couldn't have been too far away.

He heard a sudden cracking noise and spun around, dropping the Colt as he did. One of the huge boards which had been blocking the open window suddenly dropped away, flooding the open space with blinding sunlight- which was even more blinding due to the fact the gunman was still wearing his NVG's.

The goggles became awash with impossibly bright light, and he cried out on reflex, reaching up and tearing the goggles free, though the afterimage remained burned upon his retinas. Then there was a scuffing behind him, and he initially assumed that his colleague was coming to his aid and turned- until the stock of a TMP smashed into his face, breaking his nose.

His head snapped back, one hand going up as blood burst from his shattered nose, soaking the black material of his ski mask quickly. And then a second blow smashed into his jaw, and he stumbled back- tripping backwards through the empty window frame and falling 15 feet to the cold, hard concrete below. He didn't even have time to scream before he landed with an awful crunch of bone.

Dean peered down out of the window, at the sprawled body of the gunman below, his right leg badly twisted. He couldn't tell if he was dead or not, but it was damned satisfying to knock the bastard out- as it was pulling the loose board off of the window in order to use his NVG's against him in direct sunlight.

"Enjoy the hospitality, asshole!" he shouted down.

BOOM!

A shotgun erupted, blowing a hole into the wall just beside his head, forcing him to drop down as the final gunman came into view, raising the Ithaca to fire again. A second slug missed his head by a couple of centimetres, forcing him to roll to the side, around a pile of debris, dust clogging in his throat.

He was still laying face-first on the gorund when the gunman was standing over him again, shotgun aimed down. Swearing, he rolled to the side as the slug ripped a hole the size of a dinner plate through the floor, showering him in splinters. Knowing that he had about a second or two as the gunman racked a fresh shell into the weapon, he scrambled to his feet and lunged right at his opponent, arms outstretched.

He slammed the full weight of his body into the gunman, hands grasping onto the shotgun, and they both went back into the partition wall, knocking it over. The gunman grunted hard and tried to push Dean off, but the deputy relented, instead using his opponent's momentum to spin him around so they had exchanged positions, nearly throwing him off his feet. The shotgun barrelled whipped around, towards his face, but he tucked his neck in, and it was aimed over his head just as the gunman pulled the trigger. The shotgun's roar was immense at such short range, and the slug ripped up through the ceiling, raining dust down on their heads.

The gunman swung to the side, and Dean nearly lost his footing, before he swung the weapon barrel around and smacked the guy on the side of his head, right in the cheek. He grunted and flinched back, but maintained a death grip on the shotgun. He pushed back hard, ramming his head into Dean's nose. There was a crunch of bone on bone, and bright light flashed before Dean's vision, and his left hand slipped from the shotgun's barrel, but he quickly clapped it back on, knowing that he couldn't afford any moment of weakness or hesitation now.

He twisted the shotgun sideways, and then punched the gunman squarely in the centre of the face with another ugly crunch, and he stumbled back another step. Something primal within his brain had been flicked on, almost as simple as flicking on a light switch. It was either him of the other guy, and he had no intentions of letting himself die on the dusty floor of this abandoned warehouse, gunned down by some random lowlifes- after what he had endured three years past.

He thrust his knee into the gunman's groin, and there was the satisfying whoosh of air from the man's lungs, and he doubled over slightly, releasing the grip on the shotgun. Dean grabbed the shotgun's pistol grip and pulled it sharply towards him- leaving the barrel of the shotgun pressed into the gunman's stomach. In another instant, his hand curled around the shotgun's grip, his thumb curling inside the trigger guard and squeezing.

There was a muffled discharge, and a pained scream from the gunman as the slug ripped through his body armour and his stomach at point-blank range, blood bursting from the base of his spine. The massive force smashed him off of his feet, arms and legs flailing, and he crashed backwards through an office partition which snapped in half. Then he was left lying in a crumpled heap on the ground, dust rising.

Dean just stood there, breathing deeply, his heart thumping inside his ribcage, still holding the shotgun by the grip. He stared down at the crumpled body in front of him, and then slowly turned through a whole 360 degrees to examine the sheer destruction that had been inflicted- office partitions had been riddled with bullets and reduced to splintered wood and foam, while concrete walls had been riddled with more gunfire, chipped badly. And the bodies of several black-clad gunmen lay in various poses throughout the floor.

It had been in self-defence, he told himself. Yet still...

He stared down at his hands, slick with blood from the messy death of the shotgun-wielding gunman he had just bested. It was the first time that he had been forced to take a life- human or otherwise- ever since Raccoon City. He realised that his hands were beginning to shake. In the back of his mind, a tiny voice piped up.

_You are a bringer of death..._

He tossed the shotgun to the floor hastily, and then promptly turned away.

* * *

><p>He pounded down the stairs to the ground floor, his retrieved Colt handgun in his right fist, his face slashed with a blank but determined look. Having taken a quick count of the bodies upstairs, he quickly cast his eyes over the corpses he could see right now. Three more- nine in total, alongside the one man who had gone out the open window and the other that he had knocked out and left handcuffed to the radiator in the dilapidated staffroom several yards to his right. He'd get to him in a short while.<p>

Looking around a little more, he strode right up towards where several partition dividers had been left leaning up against a concrete pillar in a suspicious manner, and he pushed them aside, letting them clatter to the dusty ground without a second glance. Standing on the floor just underneath them was a small metallic box, about 20 inches round on each side, numerous blinking lights and antenna emanating from it.

He'd seen a few different examples of it- essentially it was a jamming device, designed to transmit a blanket static broadcast within the immediate area- about 50 yards- just enough to prevent him from making a radio call to anyone outside of the building. Crouching down, he pulled off the jammer's side panel, and then yanked out a few bundles of wires. There was a brief crackle from the jammer's speakers, and then it fell silent, the lights blinking out. Reaching for his radio, Dean tried the channel for the Sheriff's car.

"This is Dean, can you hear me, over?" he asked tentatively. There was a brief static crackle, and then a familiar voice chimed in.

"Dean? Where in the flying hell have you been?" cried the voice of Sheriff Nelson Harper, sounding short on patience. Being out of contact with one of his deputies who was cut off and in danger would do that.

"Sorry Chief," responded Dean, "but they were blocking the radio transmissions with a portable jammer."

"What?" asked Harper. "A military-style jammer? Who was?"

"I don't know who they were, but there were a lot of them," explained Dean- "all with military-grade hardware and armour. They set up a prank situation to lure me in here. Made it look as though a civilian was in danger so I came in all by myself."

"A prank?" spluttered Harper. "What the hell is going on, Dean?"

"Look, I'll explain it all when you get here," replied Dean. "Be careful- there might still be a few more in the area."

"You'll have to wait a little longer, I'm afraid," responded Sheriff Harper, "the SWAT team from Charlottesville were held up with something else, but they should be hear soon. Soon as we link up with them I'll move in with them." One of the dangers of being a small police department meant that you had to rely on aid from the neighbouring cities for situations when SWAT or other specialised units were required.

"Okay chief," sighed Dean, "long as they don't take forever."

"10-4," replied Harper, and then he was gone. Dean clipped his radio back onto his belt, and turned back towards the staff room entrance. Before they got here, he would at least have a few choice words with the still-surviving gunman. Raising the M1911 up, he pulled the hammer back, chambering a round.

He approached the staffroom entrance slowly, back pressed against the wall. He waited for a while, listening for any background noise that could give an ambush away, but heard nothing. Tightening his grip on the handgun, he swung around into the open doorway-

-but found nothing. The unconscious body was gone, the radiator where he had handcuffed now featuring a rusted water pipe which had been ripped clean out of the wall fitting- from where his intended prisoner had freed himself using sheer brute force.

"Oh damn it"- he began to say.

There was a flash of movement to his left, before a foot kicked the M1911 out of his grasp. He turned instinctively to face his attacker, only to receive a gloved fist to the cheek, closely followed by a spinning kick that knocked him onto his back. Before he could even comprehend what was happening, the figure was looming over him, directing several punches into his face. Each one was followed by the meaty thwack of fist against skin and bone, and stars dancing in his vision. He was barely aware of a black outline hovering over him, trying to bash his brains out.

_Fuck!_

He lashed out, his fist connecting with the assailant's nose. There was a muffled shout and he reeled back, giving Dean the room to plant his foot into the man's sternum and push him off boldly. As he rolled back and tucked his body in to rebound onto his feet, Dean quickly pulled himself up to his own feet, just as his opponent charged at him, head and shoulders down to prepare for a tackle.

He collided solidly and the two of them slid back a few feet, arms wrapped around Dean's waist, before the deputy raised his elbow and bought it down on the spot between his opponent's shoulders one, two, three times- after the third blow, the gunman's hold slackened somewhat, and Dean wrapped his left arm around the man's neck, turning sharply and tossing him through a rotted desk which snapped clean in half.

He stood in place, breathing harshly, but the gunman was on his feet within a few seconds, shoving aside one half of the desk angrily. Then he ripped his ski mask off and tossed it aside, revealing his crew-cut blonde hair, green eyes, and slight stubble, a thin trail of blood oozing from his nose. The handcuffs dangled freely from his right wrist.

"Who the hell are you?" demanded Dean, almost out of breath. The unmasked killer said nothing. Instead, he reached down and drew a serrated combat knife from a thigh holster and charged straight at him, bloodlust in his eyes.

Dean leaned back to avoid a wide slice aimed for his throat, and then hopped back to avoid a second that would have cut his stomach open otherwise. The killer spun the knife around in his fist so the blade pointed down, then tried to bring it down towards Dean's eyes in a stabbing motion. He bought his arms up to block the attack, but it was only a feint- the knife came back and he received a boot to the chest, knocking him back into the wall. Left with barely any time to react, Dean was just about able to dodge to the side before a glinting knife blade thrust in and glanced off of the grey concrete.

Dean threw himself forward and grabbed onto the killer's wrist, landing a quick barrage of punches into his ribs with his spare hand, before pulling him away from the wall and landing a right cross punch and sent the killer flying back, but the blonde-haired man suddenly bent over backwards, landing on his hands and pushing himself back into a flip that landed him on his feet.

"Nice moves," Dean complimented, but the knifeman remained mute.

Their eyes remained locked for several seconds, until Dean's eyes flicked to the side, to where his M1911 lay, barely four feet away. The killer's blue orbs followed, and then they locked once again, as they shared the exact same thought.

Dean sprinted for the gun, but the killer was twice as fast, dropping into a baseball slide, his extended feet sending the gun sliding several feet away just as Dean was reaching out for it. Then the killer swung his feet around, striking Dean in the face and stomach consecutively, pushing him back a few feet. Then he rolled to his feet and lunged forwards with blade extended, moving with a cat-like agility.

_Fuck!_

Dean was, once again, just about able to get out of attack range- but the tip of the blade caught the fabric of his deputy's shirt, tearing open about two feet of fabric, but not catching his skin thankfully. He was still reeling in shock, examining the tear in his shirt, when a flying knee courtesy of the killer caught him in the chest, forcing him backwards. The blonde-haired man had just landed on his feet when he then launched a wide spinning kick, the heel of his boot connecting with the left side of Dean's jaw.

Dean's vision was filled with bright shapes and stars for a brief instance, and then he slammed back against one of the warehouse's support pillars, the v-shape made by his planted feet being the only thing that stopped him falling to the floor. His vision cleared somewhat, but he still felt and heard the blood thumping in his ears, and felt one side of his face start to throb painfully. He slowly wiped his hand across his face, and stared down at the blood which has begun to trickle from his nose.

"Oh man," he sighed, even as the killer remained on his feet several yards away, bouncing back and forth impatiently. The knife was hanging slackly in his grasp, his face slashed with contempt.

"Get up," he snapped finally, his voice bearing traces of a New York accent. "Get on your feet so I can look you in the eye when I kill you!"

Dean stared right back, their eyes locking once again. Clearly his back-up was still some distance away, so he would have to deal with this prick himself-that knife ached to cut his throat and bleed him dry like a pig. His arrogance and his somewhat-disturbed insistence on looking his next victim in the eyes- to see the life drain from them- suggested that he was one of Umbrella's hired guns. Somewhere in the blackest reaches of his mind, he could see the results of Umbrella's past experiments starting to rear up again, begging to be let out, to shatter his current peaceful existence.

He felt the anger starting to rise up again, swelling up within his form and hardening, enforcing his will. He pushed himself up, onto his own feet, back straight, the aches and pains starting to fade away. He shook his head a few times, his vision clearing somewhat, and he finally pushed himself forwards, off of the wall and raised his balled fists, aping a classic boxer's pose.

He stood in place, warily, as the killer approached once more, slashing wide with his knife. His face was slashed with a contemptuous sneer.

Dean bobbed beneath the high slash, and then to the side when a thrust came at his ribs. He weaved to the side this time, and he saw the wide-open space that the killer had left, over the left side of his ribs. His right fist went in like a homing missile, smacking into the flesh between the front and back plates of his Kevlar body armour. There was the satisfying whoosh of air as the air was knocked from the killer's lungs, and he stepped back, his once cocky expression replaced with a mask of shock. Dean just stayed standing on the spot, fists still raised.

Contrary to appearances, Dean Travers had been a fan of sport as well some years back- boxing, to be exact. Once a week every Thursday night after High School, he attended the boxing club which had been organised by the student committee. Mostly it was so he could actually defend himself from the meatheads known as the Farley brothers who took pleasure in beating on anyone smaller and weaker than them (ie- everyone else). But over time he enjoyed it enough as a hobby- though he had fallen behind on his practice after moving to Raccoon City, he had picked up on his training again since coming back to Riverview, his dad having kept an old sparring bag which now hung in the barn.

Even against an opponent armed with a knife or some other bladed weapon, being quick on your feet and being able to react to any gaps left in the enemy's defence could quickly demolish an opponent. Just as well that Dean would need those old skills now.

The killer let out an angry shout and lunged forwards, unleashing a rapid barrage of quick knife slashes and thrusts. Dean effortlessly bobbed and weaved around each of them, even blocking against another stab to his face with raised forearms, before swinging a left hook into his opponent's face. He staggered back again, and Dean continued his assault, stepping forwards and launching two short jabs with his left hand, each blow making the killer's head snap back like a punch bag on a stick. Then he finished with a wide right hook, the same move that he had used to knock out at least three opponents during his amateur career back in his college days.

The knifeman stumbled and fell to the ground, one hand lashing out to stop him from going entirely prone. Dean just remained on the spot once more, bobbing back and forth on his feet. "Come on then," he said almost casually, "I'm not finished yet."

The knifeman let out a strangled growl of frustration as he rose to his feet and charged once again, though this time his next knife sweep was easily telegraphed, rage and fatigue making him sloppy. Dean easily caught the arm in a strong grip, before promptly ramming his knee twice into a soft stomach. Then he pulled him up so they were face to face, and rammed his forehead into his opponent's. There was a brutal crack, and he stumbled back once again, a thin trail of blood spurting from where his skin had been split open.

_Guess he's not so cocky anymore._

The knifeman let out another growl and stepped forwards; sweeping his knife in a half-hearted move that betrayed the fact he was running out of steam. Dean easily caught onto his wrist and wrenched hard, throwing him to the dusty ground. Though the man still had some energy left in him, as he vaulted back onto his feet, sweeping around for another assault-

-until Dean slammed into him in his own charge move, pushing him back against the nearest wall. Then with his left hand he pinned the arm holding the knife against the wall, and used his right fist to punch his opponent in the face two, three, four, five times- the third blow broke his nose further, while the fifth broke his cheekbone, and the knifeman slumped to the ground, the knife finally dropping from his grip. The metallic clatter hung in the air for a couple of seconds, underlined by Dean's slow breathing.

Finally, he reached down and grabbed the blonde man by the back of his tactical vest, dragging him sluggishly to his feet. As he came up he suddenly tried to throw a punch into his cheek, but Dean easily deflected the fist with his own forearm, and thrust his knee into the stomach once again, winding him. Then he crouched to retrieve the killer's knife, before standing up and dragging him over towards an office desk which had not been reduced to splinters like most of the other furniture in this building.

What he was about to do was something that would make any honest law enforcement officer the world over sick to their stomach. But right now he was too dosed up on adrenaline and his own anger to think straight. The horrific images of Raccoon City continued to flash in his mind, of Umbrella's crimes- and now they had sent these bastards in to silence him permanently, into his own home town, his own hollowed ground.

He slammed the blonde man face-first across the desk surface, hard enough to chip one of his teeth against the wood. "Time to talk, asshole," Dean growled, pushing his face harder into the wood. "Who the hell sent you?"

"Fuck you!" the blonde man spat, his voice muffled somewhat.

"Wrong answer," replied Dean. Then he raised the knife and stabbed it straight through the killer's right hand.

The blonde man screamed in agony, eyes screwed shut, his yell echoing up and down through the entire structure. Then it dropped off into choked sobs as he fought against the sheer pain. Blood was starting to pool around his impaled hand, spreading out like the threads from a spider's web.

"Next time I stake your other hand," Dean said darkly, "and after that, I'll find something else to stick that blade into. Now tell me who the hell sent you?"

The blonde man, despite everything else, let out a low chuckle, a smile spreading across his face. "Wouldn't you like to know?" Dean had another retort ready to go when he heard the unmistakeable screech of police sirens from not too far away. He turned instinctively towards the sound. Looked as though his backup had finally arrived

The blonde man suddenly tucked his leg up and kicked backwards into Dean's stomach, making him stumble back and nearly fall. A second later, he reached around with his left hand and ripped the combat knife free with a strangled scream of agony, blood spurting like a fountain. He glared straight at Dean, teeth clenched, as the deputy braced himself for another frantic assault.

Instead, the killer just grinned like a wolf, turned the blade around- and then raised it to his throat.

"No!" cried Dean, lunging forwards.

The blonde man dragged the knife across the front of his throat in one fluid motion, blood gushing down the front of his black clothing like a waterfall. He let out a single, strangled gasp as he sank to his knees, and then slapped over onto his face, blood spreading beneath his collapsed body at an alarming rate.

"Shit!" cursed Dean as he directed a kick into a nearby partition wall. Then he stepped back and allowed himself to sink into a chair that was still standing upright on its legs. "Fuck..."

He remained sat in that pose as he heard the front doors of the warehouse slam open and several figures in SWAT uniform rushed inside, weapons drawn. They immediately poured in and swarmed around him, pinning him within a tight circle of guns. Though they immediately drew back when they saw his beaten and bloodied appearance, and the distant look in his eyes.

* * *

><p>He watched warily as the SWAT officers and other uniformed officers from the county helped to hoist the bodybags out of the warehouse, one by one, in a grim procession. A few of the others had whispered between one another as they stood around collecting evidence, glancing in his direction- towards the man in the tattered deputy's uniform, his knuckles still cut and bloody from his fight with the knifeman who was utterly focused on murdering him then and there. He was balanced on a wooden chair which was still in one piece- unlike most of the others in the building, just watching the others do their work. The cuts on his eyebrow and forearm had been treated with band aids, though his face and nose were still swollen and sore, throbbing slightly.<p>

"Looks like you made one hell of a mess in here," said a familiar voice as a shadow fell over him. "But just as well that this place was abandoned, nobody else was caught up in the crossfire."

Nelson Harper had served as Riverview's sheriff for as long as Dean could remember- back to when Dean's grandfather, Robert, had still been around. He was tall and lean, his hair having turned silver a long time ago, his well-maintained beard having taken on the same colouration. With his gruff persona and the Stetson-type hat that he wore, many people who knew the sheriff likened him to a cowboy of the old west. Though- thankfully- he had Riverview maintained well enough that old western law need not apply.

Until now, that was.

"Yeah, guess I was just lucky," Dean responded, holding a hand to the small dressing which had been placed above his eyebrow. His hands still throbbed though, despite the fact he had cleaned them up.

"You definitely know how to make a hell of a mess though," the sheriff observed, sweeping his hand across the mess the warehouse floor had been left in. Shell casings littered the floor, being methodically collected and logged by forensic officers, while dozens of bullet holes pockmarked the dusty walls, ceiling, and even the floor in places.

"And everyone told me that bringing you into the police force would be a good idea," the sheriff finished with a wistful smile.

"Hey, when I signed my name on that paper this was the last thing I expected," Dean replied. "Guess that Riverview is starting to attract the wrong people."

"Maybe so," responded Sheriff Harper, retrieving his little notebook and a pen. "You mind running through what happened, then? For your statement?"

"Yeah, I know the procedure," smiled Dean, waving his hand lightly. "I responded to the call that there was an assault in progress at the warehouse, but when I got here there was no sign of anyone- it was completely dead. And then I heard someone screaming for help and gunshots from inside." Dean paused for a moment to swallow, before he continued. Harper's pen scratched as he scribbled down on his pad.

"When I got inside, I cleared the first floor, but found nothing. Then I heard the voice from the second floor and went up to try and find whoever it was- and what I found was our plastic friend there"- he gestured towards the broken mannequin which was being hefted out of the building by another forensics officer, its face and arms broken and cracked from bullet impacts- "and I realised that it was a trap."

"A trap?" asked Harper.

"Yeah- a trap set for me. Next thing I realise those guys appeared out of the shadows from nowhere and tried to kill me- and I had no choice but to return fire."

"So you got any idea who they were?" asked Harper, as he sat himself down on another intact chair beside Dean, stretching his legs out as he did.

"No, nothing concrete," Dean sighed, "but I can make a pretty good guess. Remember that I told you a couple of old friends came by to visit a few days ago?"

"I do indeed," responded Harper, as yet another body was carried past.

"They said that they were being watched by someone, ever since everything that happened 3 years ago- in Raccoon City," explained Dean, "and they wanted me to help them out in the little crusade they were carrying out- and then days later...this happens. " He indicated around them with a casual sweep of his hands.

"You really think there's a connection?" asked the Sheriff. He had listened to Dean's anti-Umbrella rants and monologues many times beforehand, so he didn't even try and stop his deputy going off anymore- he just accepted it warily.

"Sheriff, they went to a lot of trouble to make sure that I came in here by myself and that I was cut off from the rest of you," Dean responded. "It might be a coincidence, but considering the close timing I highly doubt that."

"Whatever the case," replied Harper flatly as he flipped his book shut and put it away, "we still need to sift through all of this mess you left. Charlottesville PD have already collected eight bodies from all through the building-"

"Eight?" asked Dean, glancing up.

"Yeah- one dead security guard and seven of your mystery attackers," the Sheriff responded casually.

"Eight...I counted _nine_ gunmen, Sheriff," Dean continued, anxiety creeping into his tone. "Did they find a body out back by any chance?"

"No," replied Harper with a shake of his head. "They found evidence of something falling from the second floor, but no body."

"Damn it, one of them went out the window," said Dean, rising to his feet, and then almost collapsing immediately afterwards as his aches and pains came surging back. He steadied himself against the wall and took a few breaths before he continued. "He had to have least twisted his leg badly when he fell!"

"Allright," said Harper cautiously as he helped Dean to sit again, "we'll scour the woods around the building. If he's twisted his leg then he won't get very far."

* * *

><p>Barely half a kilometre from the huge police operation at the old warehouse in Riverview, a black-clad figure burst out of the edge of the tree line beside one of the old country roads on the way to Charlottesville. He was limping badly, his right leg twisted, almost through 90 degrees. His clothes were covered in blood and nicked with a number of tears from where he had tumbled back through the open window frame.<p>

He began to limp towards an unmarked black van that was parked 20 yards away, pulled off onto a dirt verge at the side of the road- his leg making an awful crunch with every slight movement. He was breathing in a ragged fashion, constantly glancing over his shoulder as he limped on. He knew that it was an almost unspeakable act to leave his comrades behind, but he had no choice, the condition he was in- and after what he had seen happen to the others.

That Travers guy...words didn't describe what he was- he was a demon, a monster in human form. Nothing else could describe what had just occurred in that dusty old warehouse, as a small-town deputy had cut through a squad of nine fully-armed operatives, while being outnumbered, outgunned and outmatched in military experience. But that man had survived Raccoon City- it was reasonable to assume armed men weren't much of a challenge compared to the monsters born from that disaster.

He finally reached the side of the van, and planted his right hand against the bodywork, slowly inching himself towards the passenger side window. After a few steps though, he suddenly stopped in his tracks, his breathing slowing somewhat, clearing his hearing so he could detect the very slight breathing in and out from directly behind him. He froze in place, and tried to stand as straight as he could manage.

"What happened?" demanded the voice from behind him, directly into his ear. The wounded gunman breathed deeply before he responded.

"He kicked our asses, that's what," he responded, trying to sound as confident as possible. He came across more as the most timid mouse in the world.

"Define that," the voice replied curtly.

"He killed them," the gunman responded, choosing his words carefully. "He killed the rest of the squad, Sergeant Brody as well, probably. He used our own weapons against us"-

"Please tell me," the voice responded, a hand resting on the gunman's right shoulder, "how it was that a single small town deputy can overpower an eight-man squad: some of the harshest, stone-cold killers that we could find? You out numbered him, you were better equipped than him, and you outclassed him in every single way- how did he manage to survive?"

"There was nothing we could have done against _that!_" the gunman snapped, his voice breaking. "He was like a fucking demon!"

"And yet you live?" the voice enquired, adopting a condescending tone.

"He knocked me out of a second story window!" the gunman continued, his voice almost entirely broken with fear by now. "I twisted my fucking leg! What the hell could I have done?"

"So you abandoned your squad instead?"

"They were already fucking dead! I couldn't do anything for them!"

"So you're a coward instead?"

There was a brief pause, the only sounds being the light breathing from two bodies.

"Damn it, I'm not a coward!" seethed the gunman. "Patch me up and I'll make sure that he's dead the next time I see him!"

"How commendable," the voice replied. "But what is to say that you won't choke the next time as well?"

"Damn it, just give me another chance! It won't happen again, I promise!" the gunman pleaded, desperately.

There was another period of silence, and for a few horribly tense moments he was certain that his life was about to come to an end.

"You're right," the voice finally responded- "it won't happen again." The hand which had clamped itself to his shoulder finally released itself and withdrew. The gunman visibly sagged, and let out a massive sigh of relief.

Then a pair of hands reached around, took hold of his jaw- and snapped his neck with a quick twist.

"Because you won't be getting another chance," the voice finished as he let the body fall to the ground.

* * *

><p>The Riverview Police Station was a fairly cosy building, reflecting the tiny town's limited police force. It consisted of a front reception area and a trio of small offices divided by glass partitions, alongside a locker room in the back, and a small break room (complete with fridge, TV set, and a microwave oven). A garage outside maintained the two police cruisers and the SUV used by the Sheriff and his deputies, but there was no room for a firing range on the station's perimeter, so it was out in the woods, less than a kilometre out of town.<p>

Dean walked out of the locker room, changed back into his casual clothes- jeans and a light grey shirt, complete with brown work boots. He sighed and rubbed his eyes a few times, before making his way into the break room to pour himself some coffee and take a couple of aspirin- the aches had faded mostly, but they flared up with sudden, sharp motions. As he pushed through the door, he nearly bumped into a short, handsome-faced chap with black hair and brown eyes, who backed away in surprise before breaking into a smile.

"Oh hey, it's Rambo," he laughed.

"Very funny smartass," smirked Dean in response as he edged around the joker and reached for the coffee pot. "How are you, Will?"

Deputy William Farro had served on the post for the last three years, starting around the time of the Raccoon City outbreak. An Italian-American, his family had moved to the US around the time of the Second World War as his grandfather left Italy for a new life- and since then their family had been another constant presence in Riverview. He was normally Dean's partner on patrol, but today he'd been at home for the morning, taking care of his sickly aunt.

"I'm fine man," he smiled as Dean poured out some black coffee into his mug, "just my aunt I'm worried about. The doctors say that she's improving- very gradually, but all we still see is someone who can barely stand now."

"Sorry to hear that," sighed Dean, as he took a sip from his mug. "At least she's got her favourite nephew to look after her, right?"

"Yeah, if you say so," smiled Will, as Dean moved past him out into the hall. "You heading home now?"

"In a bit," replied Dean. "I just need to talk to the boss about a few other things and then I'll be out of here." With that, he pushed through into the building's front office, where Deputy Perry Arnold was sat at the front desk, which also served as the Riverview P.D's dispatch centre, linked to the phone on the desk beside him. Arnold was a somewhat weedy man a couple inches shorter than Dean, his blonde hair closely shaved so he was almost bald, his eyebrows narrow and his eyes a light shade of blue. He was a fairly quiet sort who kept to himself mostly, but was friendly enough when approached in conversation.

"Hey Dean," he said as he glanced up. "Nice to see you don't have any holes in you."

"Everyone's a comedian today," smirked Dean sarcastically. "Is the boss in his office?"

"He sure is," replied Perry, "you checking in with him before you head on back?"

"Considering that I killed seven men a couple of hours ago, I reckon so," sighed Dean as he wandered past towards the Sheriff's office, just around the corner from the dispatch desk. After a couple of seconds, the phone rang, and Arnold picked it up in an instant.

"Riverview P.D," he spoke promptly.

Sheriff Harper's office was the largest room within the building, large enough to accommodate both Harper's massive oak desk- laden with stacks of files and other paperwork, a small portable lamp and other office stationary- and a leather couch on one side for visitors to sit on. The opposite wall featured a window looking out over the woods that surrounded most of the town. Above the sheriff's head hung an old Winchester 1887 repeater rifle- the 'gun that won the West', and a pair of cow skulls, which were apparently hand-me-downs from Harper's ancestors.

"Hey, boss," said Dean as he eased himself into a spot on the couch.

"Charlottesville PD found your ninth man," Sheriff Harper said bluntly, not looking up from the report he was reading over before him, before signing it off with a quick scribble of his name.

"They did?" asked Dean, perking up.

"Oh yes," responded Harper, glancing up and leaning back in his seat, hands folded in front of him. "They found him dumped in a ditch at the side of one of the main roads- someone had snapped his neck, and then taken a saw to his wrists and smashed his teeth out so we couldn't identify him with traditional means."

"Jesus," whispered Dean in response. Someone had gone to an awful lot of trouble to try and kill him, and then ensure that the one surviving aggressor was in no position to lead the cops- directly or otherwise- to the ones pulling the strings. They had made enough of an effort to try and kill him in the first place, so why scrimp on whoever was (un)lucky enough to survive?

"Someone really hates your guts," Harper continued- mirroring Dean's current train of thought, "going to all of this trouble, bringing a lot of noise onto our doorstep. I just hope that it won't get worse in the near future- won't drag innocent bystanders into the mix."

"Hey chief, they attacked me," retorted Dean. "I was defending myself. I've got no intention of trying to bring anymore trouble to this town- the _last _thing I would want is for you guys or anyone else I know being caught in the crossfire." He sighed and lowered his head. "I never asked for this crap to be dumped on me...I just want to try and get on with my life."

"I know that you meant no harm, Dean," sighed Harper as he leaned back in his seat, one hand massaging his forehead, "but Riverview's a town that's been detached from the big cities and the mainstream for a long time- the last thing that any of us wants is for this place to be in the full glare of the media. Next thing you'll know, people will be here in droves- not to see the forests but to see where nine men were killed and the deputy who made it so."

"Hey don't worry," replied Dean, rising to his feet, "I can keep my mouth shut."

"Good to hear," responded Harper. "Now get- we'll see you in a couple days time."

"Okay, see you soon chief," nodded Dean, and then turned to exit, leaving the chief to his paperwork. As he stepped out into the front, he realised that Perry wasn't at the dispatch desk.

"Someone give you a better offer, Perry?" he asked no-one in particular, glancing around. He figured that it would at least say goodbye to the others before he went- no use in being rude to people he had considered friends. He saw that the door into the station's records room was slightly ajar, and he could see brief movement and hear a muted voice from the other side. He drew closer, close enough to hear Perry talking to someone on a cell phone.

"-no, he's still here at the station, but he'll be leaving soon."

Dean raised an eyebrow, thinking that Perry was talking to one of his friends- someone who had heard the news about the warehouse battle and was enquiring as to Dean's health.

"Well if those idiots hadn't fucked up a simple hit job, then it wouldn't have come to this, would it?"

Dean froze in place. Who the hell was Perry talking to? And how the hell did he figure that the attack at the warehouse was an attempt on his life?

"Fine, I'll do it- when the time's right. But you know my price, right?" Perry continued, oblivious to the fact that he was being eavesdropped on. "Two hundred thousand once the deed is done. I mean I thought this was an easy little job in itself, watching this fucker to see if he decided on anything- it'll be nice to get my hands dirty for a change..."

Dean had heard enough. He stepped forwards and flung the door open wide. Perry turned in an instant, nearly jumping out of his skin, eyes wide in shock, as he quickly tucked his cell into his pocket, flicking it off.

"Dean!" he stammered, trying to act innocently. "Jesus, don't scare me like that. What are you-?"

"What the hell are you doing, Perry?" snapped Dean, cutting Perry off.

"Well...nothing," responded the deputy, his innocent act not working for one second on Dean.

"Cut the bullshit," interrupted Dean, jabbing a finger into Perry's sternum. "I've been called a lot of things in my life, but I'm not deaf. I heard you talking on the phone- about that 'simple hit'? That you'll do 'it' when the time is right?"

Perry just shook his head and pushed past Dean to leave. "Seriously man, I have no clue what you're on about- maybe you need to have a lie down after your little near-death experience."

"Hey!" said Dean sharply, stepping after Perry, who barely broke stride as he made for the exit doors. "Hey, I'm talking to you!" he added, grabbing him by the shoulder and spinning him around sharply. As he did, Perry's arm came up and batted away Dean's hand, his face scrunched up into an angry scowl.

"Get your fucking hands off me," he growled. Dean hesitated for a moment- but only for a moment.

"How much are they paying you, Perry?" he asked instead.

"You're delusional, Dean"-

"Nice try," Dean responded curtly, "but I pretty sure I'm nowhere near having a breakdown yet. I remember you're the one who gave me the call from dispatch that the assault was in progress at the warehouse"-

"That's a pretty big accusation you're making"-

"Shut up!" growled Dean, his voice rising in volume by the second. "You knew I was on patrol by myself today, you knew I'd be an easy target- you fucking sent me right to them, you bastard!"

"What the hell's going on?" demanded Sheriff Harper as he suddenly stepped out of his office, an angry look etched upon his face, but neither of his two deputies backed down from their little face off.

"Chief, I don't like the way Dean was speaking to me just now," said Perry calmly, though he didn't break eye contact. "He's accusing me of all kinds of shit, without anything to back it up"-

"Fuck you, Arnold!" retorted Dean, stabbing a finger into Perry's sternum. "I heard you loud and clear on the phone just now- about how watching me was a nice little job in itself, and it would another two hundred thousand for what was needed next?"

Perry just maintained his glare, though he seemed to have deflated somewhat as he took a small step backwards. Harper looked aghast, his eyes turning on Perry slowly. "What is he talking about, Perry?"

"So I'll ask you again," continued Dean, maintaining his verbal assault, "how much were they paying you to watch me?"

Silence fell within the station, even as the door to the break room opened and Will Farro stepped out, having heard the entire exchange from the other side of the door. He looked back and forth between Dean and Perry- half expecting one of them to throw a punch- and to the sheriff, who remained standing in place, just watching the situation unfold. Finally, Perry broke the silence, his words no longer defensive.

"Once again Dean, you were in the wrong place at the wrong time- just like in Raccoon City. It might have all ended well- if you had just crawled back under that rock which spawned you and blown your fucking brains out. Now, I can't be blamed for anything that happens to you."

"The hell is that supposed to mean?" asked Dean. But Perry was already turning to leave.

"Deputy Arnold," called out Harper, but the deputy ignored him as he pulled the front doors open and stepped out. "Deputy Arnold, get back here, now!" But his words had fallen on deaf ears, and Arnold was already out of sight and out of the building, doors slamming behind him.

"What's with him?" asked Deputy Bob Cohen, stepping in from outside, ready to start his own shift. Bob was a slightly older man than Dean was, his gut a little more noticeable than those of his fellows, but he was still a fairly spry man, always willing to help out.

"Slinging his toys out of the pram," replied Dean smartly.

"Bob, go get yourself ready- you'll have to cover the dispatch desk since Perry has gone so suddenly," added Sheriff Harper.

As Bob started to protest this sudden change to his work shift, Dean glanced out of one of the station's front windows, in time to see Perry Arnold's sedan reverse out of its parking spot and do a sharp 180 degree turn, before accelerating hard onto the main road, almost side-swiping a pick-up truck that was passing by. Despite the wild horn blowing from the truck driver, Arnold kept on driving- he didn't even glance up to see who he had almost hit.

"Sheriff," he asked suddenly, turning to face Harper, "how long has Perry been working here?"

"Well," Harper shrugged, "just under 18 months. In fact it was right...right after you started here..." Harper trailed off, just realising Dean's implications. "Oh Christ..."

"He's been feeding information to whoever sent those gunmen after me in the warehouse," Dean reasoned, "and now that they failed he's not needed anymore."

"Jesus," whispered Will, shaking his head. "If that's the case, then why didn't they try and kill you when you first started working here? Why wait until now?"

"Because Chris and Jill visited," Dean replied, "wanting me to join their fight- that's why they came after me then- they were worried that I'd become a bigger threat than beforehand."

"Well either way, Deputy Arnold is going to become a person of interest to every LEO in the county," Sheriff Harper stated boldly. "He's not only betrayed you, he's betrayed me and this entire police department, small as it is. I'll make a call to Charlottesville and Richmond's police forces and have them watch for Perry- in the meantime, you get on home Dean. I'll have Will follow you home, just in case Perry tries anything bold."

"Thanks Chief," sighed Dean. He noticed the anger which had started to twist Harper's expression, knew that Perry Arnold would be in for a world of hurt if the sheriff managed to get a hold of him. And still, with his secret out, he couldn't help but feel that Umbrella- or whoever it was working for Umbrella- would make another attempt on his life.

_Great- after all this time, the past was just out of sight. It's not ready to let me go yet._

He could feel the shakes returning to his hands as he turned and walked out of the building.

**A/N: Hey guys, sorry for the long wait between this chapter and the last- but I've been really busy lately with other things. And I'm aware that I still need to update TFRN as well, but I will get to it soon, I promise!**

**Anyways, with this chapter the action has certainly been upped after the quiet, introspective first few chapters- and I hope that writing the action in this chapter came across differently to how it was written in TFOR, since Dean is fighting human enemies rather than zombies or B.O.W's. There shall be more in the future, I promise!**

**I think maybe the biggest news recently is the Resident Evil 6 announcement- of course, the debut trailer showed a lot of running and gunning action, but with Leon and Chris in as playable characters, I'm hoping that the two halves of the game will be split between old-school RE and more action-focused RE- either way, it's going on pre-order for myself. :p**

**Anyways, R&R as usual please. All feedback is appreciated and inspires me to continue writing. **


	6. Chapter 6: Breaking Point

Chapter 6: Breaking Point

**July 3****rd****, 1039 hours**

'_The lowest point that any man can reach is when he feels that he is utterly alone in the world, alone against his demons, alone against the past. The only difference for me was that trouble had a habit of seeking me out- no matter where I hid.'_

There was a general silence within Doctor Monroe's office, aside from the fluttering of paper as the good doctor flicked through the pages of Dean's self-penned journal. Though it had only been a week since she had given it to him, he had filled nearly twenty pages with his erratic, yet still legible, handwriting. Dean sat in the usual seat opposite the doctor's chair, hands clasped in front of his chest, watching intently.

The aches and the bruises that he had received from the previous day had mostly faded, though sudden motions made them flare up again. In particular, the right side of his face continued to throb from where he had been kicked full force in the face by the knifeman he had fought in the warehouse, while the cut above his eyebrow still showed the dressing that had been placed over it. The doctor hadn't asked about them for some reason- perhaps she wanted to stay impartial, but whatever the reason Dean was still mentally preparing himself for the inevitable questioning.

There was another reason for him to be cautious though. Perry Arnold had seemingly fallen off of the face of the earth since he had walked out of Riverview police department the previous day. Though the others had raided the house on the edge of town where he lived, they found it empty- not just of Arnold, but of anything remotely resembling a living space. It was obvious that he only used that place as a rest stop, and it turned out that his so-called 'friends' that he went drinking with every Saturday night were lies as well. It was becoming more and more obvious that Perry had been a plant in the Riverview P.D all along, to keep an eye on Dean lest his opposition of Umbrella became more focused.

Until he was found, Dean knew that his life was still in danger. But he had to try and get on with things, keep a brave face on things while he trusted the others to have his back for him.

"Impressive," Doctor Monroe said finally, closing the journal and passing it back to him, her voice snapping him out of his thoughts. "You really wrote a lot more than I expected you would- most of my other patients that I suggested this to barely manage to write more than five pages within a week."

"Thank you," Dean replied. "In truth, when I started, the rest just came. It was...satisfying, in a way- finding that release."

"That was the point of the book to begin with," nodded Doctor Monroe, "to give you some other means to express your feelings, to open up, as most people that I know are uncomfortable with just talking."

_You don't say, _thought Dean to himself, somewhat sarcastically, before he decided that he should at least explain to her why he looked as though he'd been involved in a bar fight the night before- and beaten badly as a result.

"About...this," he began, pointing to his eyebrow. "I wasn't in a bar fight or anything like that."

"Oh I never expected such of you, Dean," Doctor Monroe responded. Her comment was meant to be playful- even slightly flirty- but her constant professional veneer meant that any other person who didn't know her would have realised as much.

"Something happened yesterday when I was on my deputy duties," he continued. "I got a dispatch call out to an old warehouse just outside of Riverview's town centre that an assault was in progress. But when I got there, there was no such thing. It was an ambush."

"An ambush?" asked the doctor.

"Yeah," nodded Dean. "Next thing I knew, these gunmen come pouring out of the shadows trying to blow my head off. I was just about able to survive when backup arrived."

"Oh my," she gasped, "are you okay?" Once again, she didn't sound particularly concerned or troubled at all.

"I'll live," replied Dean with a shaky smile, "just a few cuts and some bruises. Lucky that I didn't come off any worse."

"Did you know who they were?"

"Well...I don't have any concrete evidence, but I can make a pretty good guess," he continued, glancing away. "I'm sure that they were sent by Umbrella to silence me, to stop me taking any action against them. Seemed that they'd been watching me for the last three years, hoping that I didn't do anything against them- Chris and Jill's visit must have spurred them into taking a more direct action."

Doctor Monroe remained silent throughout his explanation, having resumed scratching out more notes onto her paper, ignorant of what exactly was going through Dean's head at the time. Fighting for his life yesterday, the adrenaline coursing through his veins, had only served to bring the memories of Raccoon City to the forefront of his mind's eyes- even now he could feel them stirring and shifting in his head, like an old monster rousing from sleep in the depths of his brain.

He lowered his head, fingers braced against the sides of his skull. All he could see were the dead, blank faces pressing in all around him, marbled eyes peering into the blackest depths of his soul, taunting his weakness as a human- berating him for betraying the trust of his closest friend all those years ago.

_What's the matter? You can't ignore us forever, _piped up that little voice inside his head.

"Dean?"

He glanced up quickly to see Doctor Monroe looking at him with concern. "Are you okay?"

_She doesn't understand, _the voice continued. _She never did, and she never will. You're best off not wasting your time here any longer._

"I..." he began, trailing off. He was still aware of the decayed faces just out of the corner of his eye, watching him, judging him- lingering in the corners of the office, leering into focus.

"Dean," Doctor Monroe said cautiously, removing her spectacles and reaching her hand out towards his wrist. "You don't have to be afraid. I'm here- we're all here for you, no matter what's going through your head at the moment"-

Her fingers brushed against his wrist, and he suddenly pulled away with a jerking motion.

"_Don't!" _he snapped savagely, rising from his seat as he did. His breathing was short and ragged, close to panting for air. "Just...don't! Don't talk to me like you want to be compassionate, that you want to understand me better. You must have nearly a hundred patients come and go through your office every week, so don't act like you care about me!"

"Dean, I'm sorry," replied the doctor, rising from her own seat in an attempt to defuse the situation. "I didn't mean to come across as...forward. I do only want to help you- we all do."

"Oh, save the bullshit," Dean retorted. His withdrawn state had totally receded now, and he just presented an outright aggressive persona now. "You- you want to understand me? Talk about my feelings and write them down on your damn notes? The truth is doctor, you don't understand- _none _of you understand a damn thing I've been going through! All of those things I saw in Raccoon City- it's a wonder they didn't stick me in a straightjacket to begin with!"

With that, he grabbed for his jacket and pulled it on hastily, and scooped up the journal as well. "This was a damned waste of time, all of it. But I'm done with this shit now!" Doctor Monroe just continued to watch him warily, even as he turned to leave, heading straight for the door.

"Dean!"

He stopped at the halfway mark, his back ramrod-straight as he waited for the doctor's next statement. "Dean, you tell me that we can never understand," she pleaded, "but we can't understand if you don't talk to us! You turn you back on everyone who cares about you, and you're lost."

He continued standing in place for a while longer, and then headed straight for the door.

* * *

><p>"Don't you think you've had enough, sugar?"<p>

"I'll decide when I've had enough, thank you very much."

The middle-aged waitress regarded him with a cautious stare for a few more seconds, before pouring him his sixth cup of black coffee in the last half hour, and walked away to serve customers elsewhere. Dean downed half the cup in a second, staring straight ahead at the wall in front of him.

This place was just some greasy, fly-ridden, foul-stinking greasy spoon diner that you found at the sides of pretty much every freeway and interstate road in the country, populated by long-haulage truckers on a break from their relentless schedules, biker gangs on the move between towns, and perhaps even the odd criminal on the run from the police. Though thankfully it looked as though none of the latter were here at the moment, the only other occupants being a couple of bearded truckers and what looked like a young couple on their travels- a man and woman in their mid-twenties, speaking closely between one another.

He focused past the background noise he could hear- the mastication of food, the slurp from coffee mugs, the scrape and slap as the hulking fry chef flipped fried eggs, bacon, and other hot food in the kitchen, and the scuff of the waitress' shoes as they paced back and forth. He pushed it all to the back of his mind, focused on the images swimming around his head. He could see them all clear as day now, one by one- images from a menagerie of nightmares.

Ben standing there, covered from head to toe in blood, blaming him for his death.

The hordes of zombies pressing in, the humanity and warmth gone from their eyes- just a cold hunger lingered.

Malcolm Donovan, taunting and berating him as a coward and a monster.

And most vividly of all- the image of Chris and Jill standing before him, alongside his twisted Doppelganger, before putting a bullet into him as a fitting punishment for his 'crime'.

He felt his pulse rise, felt the sweat bead on his forehead, felt the cold, clammy sensation of fear creeping up his spine: the same sensation he hadn't experienced since the outbreak in Raccoon City. His grip tightened around his cup, trying to force down the fear, before it overwhelmed his senses, smothered him.

The bell hanging above the front door jangled, and Dean heard at least three pairs of heavy boots entering. He glanced up to see a trio of men enter who resembled the classic stereotype of the rough biker gang- dressed head to toe in black leathers, their hairy arms covered in all kinds of tattoos, including black aces, flaming skulls, and all the other types of designs you'd find on the wall of any downtown tattoo parlour. One of them had a bull ring piercing through his nose.

He turned his head away as they made their way over to the opposite end of the counter and sat themselves down heavily. Far as he was concerned, he was just another traveller passing by, on his way to the next state over. He knew everyone else would be searching high and low, but he didn't care- he just wanted to be anonymous, to fade into the background and be alone for a change, not have everyone clamouring around him, constantly asking how he was doing.

_No, as a matter of fact, I'm not doing ok, because I survived a real life zombie outbreak 3 years ago and I still can't get over the fact that I'm the one to blame for my oldest friend's death. How is your day going?_

He groaned loudly and shook his head, before running a hand through his hair- his greasy, matted hair which hadn't been washed in at least two days. His stubble was suffering similarly, as he'd have a pretty decent attempt at a beard after a few more days, he reckoned. He downed the rest of the coffee in the next gulp, not savouring the taste one bit. It tasted bitter, of nothing at all. Almost as though it reflected his inner turmoil at this precise moment.

He'd never expected to end up here- he'd just driven and driven, out of Richmond, straight past Riverview, just following the highway, keeping his eyes off of the rearview mirror and the roadkill gathering in his wake. Doctor Monroe was right- he was pushing everyone away from him, even his own family and his closest friends. He was being marooned on a metaphorical desert island, with nothing to leave a distress signal with.

"Excuse me?"

He glanced around blankly to face the person standing beside him, the young man who had been sat with his partner- the same ones who had been watching him closely for the last few minutes, whispering between themselves.

"What do you want?" growled Dean, pushing his empty mug away. The young man looked a little cautious before he spoke up again.

"You're Dean Travers, right?"

Dean hesitated for a second before he replied. "No, you must have me confused with someone else."

"Are you sure?" the man asked, disappointed. "You are him- the man that survived Raccoon City, right? Man, we never knew that we'd be running into someone as famous as you out here!" The name of that long-gone town made his gut twist and turn, but he kept his discomfort well-hidden he supposed.

"No, I'm not," he responded, slowly and carefully. "I'm just a guy trying to enjoy a few mugs of coffee- now _leave me alone._"

"But"-

"What part of 'leave me alone' don't you understand?" snapped Dean in a prickly fashion. The young man held up his hands in an apologetic manner before pacing back towards his table. His girlfriend looked at him expectantly, but he just shook his head.

Once he was gone, the bikers looked up towards the figure sat at the far end of the counter, minding his own business, someone they had never seen in here before. They then leaned in towards one another and started whispering between themselves.

Dean sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly, head lowered. After a few more seconds, he looked up, and then glanced down at his empty coffee mug. Then he was staring in muted horror at what he saw within the white plaster. He saw blood, swimming with maggots and chunks of human flesh, and there was a face forming within the bloody mass- smiling at him, mocking him almost.

He blinked rapidly, and the vision was gone, leaving him staring down into a normal mug of coffee.

He grunted in despair and pushed it away from him as far as possible, earning another glance from the waitress who had served him just prior. This was getting out of hand- his nightmarish visions were coming to him when he was wide awake now, overriding the presumed safety of being awake and standing.

He wondered what Doctor Monroe would say if she were here now right now. But she wasn't here, and he had to try and deal with it himself. His family and friends would have supported him if they were there, but they weren't there either- he'd been pushing them all away for so long, and now they had abandoned him in his moment of greatest need- the worst thing that anyone suffering from trauma could do.

Though that would soon be the least of his worries right now.

"Hey, boy."

He looked to the side to see one of the bikers standing over him, a red-haired brute with a thick beard that had been braided at the end, and with devil horns tattooed across his bare knuckles. His jacket clicked and jangled as he moved, so full was it with lengths of chain, badges, and other paraphernalia.

"What?" asked Dean, irritated.

"Never seen your face round these parts," the man continued, his voice a gravelly drawl, no doubt created through years of alcohol and tobacco use. "You a newcomer?"

"No, just passing through," Dean responded, turning his head away. "Just having a few coffees, that's all."

"I'm afraid that's not good enough," the biker retorted with a growled note to his voice. "Why the hell did you come to this diner, of all the places?"

"And?" asked Dean, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He seriously wasn't in the mood for crap like this. "Didn't realise that I needed your express permission to sit my ass on this stool."

"Don't 'and' me, son," the man growled in a gruff manner, drawing himself closer so Dean could smell the alcohol and sweat on his breath. "You picked the wrong damned diner to park your insignificant ass in, you know that? This place belongs to me and my brothers, the Black Devils. Maybe you've soiled your britches just hearing about us?"

Dean glanced up to see the emblem which had been stitched onto the sleeve of the man's jacket- a classic image of Satan's snarling visage, though pitch black in colour and with 'Black Devils' stitched into the material just underneath it- a motif repeated on the sleeve of each biker in the diner at that moment. Yet another small biker gang which considered themselves the best out there, in a country full of literally thousands of such gangs.

"Never heard of you," responded Dean, not breaking eye contact with the gruff biker leader. He saw a flicker of surprise across the man's face, but he quickly recovered with an angry scowl crossing his face. As if trying to add some bluster to his actions, he used a wild sweep of his arm to knock several used mugs and a tray to the ground with a loud clatter. The background noise in the diner filtered away, all eyes on the rapidly deteriorating confrontation now.

"You ignorant pup!" the biker leader growled, making a move forwards, but Dean stood up as quickly as he could, his stool scraping loudly as he did so.

"Seriously, I have had a shitty day and am not in the fucking mood," he growled, low and deadly. "Just leave me alone."

"Well guess what? I don't give a shit what mood you're in, boy. I'll pound you into a pulp all the same."

"Hey! Take it outside!" barked the diner's chef, but he quickly backed down at the hateful glares that came from the other two bikers in attendance, one of them pulling on a pair of brass knuckles quickly while the other cracked his neck.

"You got a purdy mouth there, boy," the biker leader grinned as he glared at Dean, the two men practically eye-to-eye, though the biker's physique was much more intimidating than that of the former R.P.D officer. "You got a purdy face there, too. Does that make you someone's little bitch, huh? Are you a little bitch?" Dean said nothing as he let the other man continue with his little tirade.

But once again, his nightmarish delusions began to bleed into reality, and the flesh on the biker's face started to split and peel like paint, his eyes glazing over and turning white, his beard becoming filthy and matted with blood, his lips peeling away to expose yellowed, broken teeth. Dean just stared into that zombified visage, his pulse steadily rising again.

"What's the matter?" the zombie asked, his voice remaining curiously human, "you lost your spine as well, you little bitch?"

Dean's fist was up and swinging into the biker's face before he even had a chance to process what he was doing. He punched the grungy man so hard that he was knocked backwards off of his feet, landing awkwardly on the diner floor and sliding back a few inches. The other two bikers just watched in utter surprise, having never had someone to stand up to him just as this random visitor had done. But as far as Dean was concerned, he was just glad to be rid of that damned vision of a zombie leering at him.

In response, the biker looked up at Dean blankly, before he wiped a hand across the front of his face, looking at the trail of blood that was leaking from his nose. Then a low growl began to build in the back of his throat, before he scrambled back to his feet.

Dean was still in his haze even as a meaty fist smacked into his stomach, winding him, before a follow-up punch to his face slammed him across the diner's counter, his flailing arms knocking a coffee pot over with a shattering of glass. A few screams were heard as the young couple and the two waitresses made a run for the door, closely followed by a few of the other diners.

"You dumb fuck!" snarled the bleeding biker as he towered over Dean, readying another punch. "I'll grind you into dust!"

Dean turned and there was a slap of flesh as he caught the man's big fist and directed it away from his own face, before he punched the big man for the second time in the face. He stumbled back, grabbing for his nose, and then Dean leapt up, swinging a wide punch that landed with a crack across the biker's right cheek, with enough force to spin him around to fall across a table, before falling to the ground again.

He turned towards the remaining two bikers, his fists balled, his cheek starting to throb painfully. His teeth were gritted as he glared straight at them, just daring them to try their luck. He couldn't keep the rage bottled up any longer, and he had to let it out on some unfortunate bastard. There was a brief hesitation, and then the man wearing the brass knuckles charged forwards.

Dean leaned back to dodge a punch that swung for his nose, and then bobbed to the side as a second fist wrapped in metal tried to smash into his ribs. He drove his knee into the man's stomach, and then slammed him head-first into the counter, before pulling him back and planting a boot into his chest, pushing him into the bearded man, and they both tumbled to the floor in a tangled heap.

The third biker- the man with the bull-ring through his nose- came for him immediately afterwards. Dean bobbed back and to the side to avoid a quick flurry of punches, before landing a quick jab on the man's nose. He staggered back, teetering on his heels, before he lunged forwards with a straight punch. Dean ducked down this time, before reaching around with his right arm and tightly grabbing his bull-ring. He screamed in agony as Dean gave it a sharp tug straight down, then released to let him reel back clutching his nose- and then landed a headbutt which knocked him onto his ass.

The bell on the front door chimed as it opened up and three more figures in leathers and denim poured in, coming to the aid of their bruised and sore fellows. One of them was a mean-looking man with greasy jet black hair, the sleeves stripped off of his jacket to reveal his muscular, tattooed biceps.

"The fuck is going on here?" he demanded, as the last few diners fled the building past him and his cohorts.

"Boss," choked the red-bearded man, dragging and clawing himself up from the floor, "this prick...he just started wailing on us!"

"You started it," retorted Dean bluntly, but the gang's leader didn't look amused. Rather, he looked about set to rip his head off then and there.

"Get him!" he snapped, pointing at Dean. The bikers flanking him pulled out switchblades, a pair of quiet 'snickt' noises being heard as the blades were drawn. Then they both came right at him, one of them vaulting up onto the diner counter to attack from above.

"Perfect," muttered Dean, taking a cautious step back as the bikers closed in on him.

He swung his left arm wide, sweeping the legs from beneath the one who had jumped onto the diner counter. His arms and legs went flailing, and then he hit the counter hard, shattering some ketchup bottles and scattering a salt shaker as he slid onto the floor. Then red-beard came at him, and Dean ducked beneath a fist, coming up and swinging both fists into his face, knocking him backwards into the one with the brass knuckles, who shoved his fellow aside in his eagerness to get at Dean.

Within a few seconds a three-on-one fight had descended into a frantic brawl, as bodies and fists came at Dean from nearly every angle, and he couldn't hope to dodge or block every single attack. A fist caught him on the chin and his head snapped back, vision blurring, before a boot to the stomach pushed him backwards to stumble over one of the stools. Thinking quickly, he grabbed for a chair and swung it wide- it fell to pieces against the ribs of one of the bikers, and he fell to the floor groaning in pain, but a second pushed past and tackled into Dean's stomach, pushing him back against the counter.

A hairy fist smashed into his face three times, drawing blood from a split lip, before a leering face entered the scene, preparing to drive his switchblade into Dean's chest.

"Stick him like a pig!" cackled the man with the bull-ring through his nose, still feeling a little sore.

Dean reached back behind him, fingers closing around a salt shaker. He swung his arm around, and a light cloud of salt granules went into the eyes of the biker holding him down. He cried out in agony and stumbled back, hands covering his eyes, switchblade falling from his fingers. Then Dean kicked him in the stomach, dropped the salt shaker, and slugged him across the face with two linked fists. He swung back to smash into the face of red-beard, and the burly man hit the floor once again. This time though, he didn't get up again.

He glared around at the three remaining bikers, one of them clutching his switchblade cautiously, holding it at arm's length to try and deter him from approaching. But with the demented fire which burned in his eyes and the blood which was trickling from the cuts on his face and balled fists, it wasn't going to help anyone.

He stepped forwards again, as the one with the brass knuckles winded up for another punch. But Dean ducked and weaved like a professional boxer, before swinging a fist into the biker's face. He followed with a second punch and finished with a brutal gut punch which hit so hard that the biker was smacked clean off of his feet, landing face-first on the floor. Mr Switchblade was next up to the plate, but before he even had a chance to make a move, Dean's haymaker smashed him clean off of his feet, and he landed in a crumpled pile on the floor, on top of his fellow. His blade went flying away, skittering away across the floor.

The third and final biker- Mr Bull-Ring- held up his hands in submission. "Please man!" he stammered, pathetically. "I surrender!" But Dean was in no state to offer any grace or forgiveness. He stepped forwards and smashed a straight right punch into the biker's face. He hit the floor like a sack of sand.

All that left was the gang leader, who had just stood by, arms folded in front of his chest, as his cohorts were beaten to within an inch of their life. Right now, all that could be heard was a series of low groans as they struggled to their feet, slumping into the diner's seats and booths, clutching their sore bodies or trying to distances themselves from the psycho who had beaten them all so soundly.

"Your turn," said Dean, pointing at the leader.

"Oh no," he responded, shaking his head, "I prefer to keep my hands clean. I'm just waiting for my big brother to get here." He turned to look out through the diner window. "And speak of the devil..."

The bell on the front door chimed, and yet another biker entered- though this one was so huge he had to actually bend down to avoid banging his head against the top of the door frame. He stood over six and a half feet tall, his considerable bulk encased in jeans, motorcycle boots and a black leather jacket with yellow stripes down the arms and shoulders. His head was shaved bald, his granite features crushed into a furious glare as beady eyes fixed on him.

"Oh," was all Dean said meekly as he took a step back. "Hey there, big guy."

In response, the big guy just cracked his knuckles together as his boss stood by in the background, chuckling in a low tone. "Hey Brick- beat this guy to a pulp and I'll buy you dinner." Brick seemed to like this, as he just nodded and chuckled himself, stepping closer to Dean, so the two of them were almost face to face.

Dean had to crane his neck skyward to even make out this guy's eyes. He looked like the kind of guy who ate steroids for breakfast, lunch and dinner- and could bend iron bars as a neat party trick. The big guy just raised his hands and made a bring it on gesture with his fingers.

"Fine," said Dean, raising his fists and landing a punch against Brick's stomach. All that got was a light thud from the impact, and the feeling that he had just punched a brick wall. He drew his hand back and looked up at the big guy cautiously, who just wore an unimpressed look.

_Oh fuck-_

-then his massive hands shot out and clamped down on his neck like a boa constrictor, before slamming his head sideways against the counter. Stars and other bright shapes filled his vision, before he was aware of being dragged along its surface quickly, his face scattering plates, mugs and other cutlery items- before he slammed into the door marked for the bathroom and tumbled into a filthy, tile-covered room.

"Fuck...that hurt," he groaned; looking up in time to see that his face was about half an inch away from the shared urinal- an urinal which was in dire need of a good scrub. "That's just plain nasty."

He heard a tinkling as Brick stepped into the bathroom behind, his massive boots looking big enough to smash his skull in with a single stomp. Thankfully, he was looking to drag this beating out, and reached down to grab Dean by the back of his jacket and pull him to his feet. Dean felt as though his legs were made of rubber, as he balanced unsteadily on his feet- only for Brick to slam a massive fist into his nose. He was vaguely aware of the skull and crossbones pattern tattooed across his knuckles.

Dean slammed backwards through the wooden door of the lone stall, falling back against the tiled wall. He gasped and wiped a hand across his face, looking at the blood which was now trickling at an accelerated rate. He could taste it as well, and spat onto the floor, leaving a small puddle of blood on the floor, along with what looked like one of his teeth. His tongue probed around his mouth, and sure enough, found a gap that was hot and wet as it bled.

He looked up at the thuggish brute standing in the middle of the bathroom, glaring at him, daring him to make another move. With another growl, Dean pushed off of the wall, steadying himself against the stall door.

"Allright, allright, I'm coming," he groaned, doing his best to stand up straight and raise his fists into a sparring position. As soon as he was within range, Brick let out a shout and swung his left fist towards Dean's face. It was exactly as he expected- slow and easily telegraphed.

Dean ducked and the massive fist soared at least three inches above his head, the brute's body twisting to accommodate his motions. Then he kicked his foot into the back of the big guy's left knee, and he sank down without any resistance, letting out a surprised gasp as he did. Then Dean grabbed the back of his head and pushed him forwards, head-first into the urinal, a metallic thud sounding as the front of his skull impacted against the metal.

He tried to rise to his feet, but Dean raised one balled fist and smashed it down into Brick's cheek, pushing his head back down. He repeated it three more times, each punch eliciting a brutal crack of bone, but he ignored the pain flaring in his hand, just wanting to make this steroid muncher suffer. When he went for a fifth punch, an open palm shoved back into his sternum, and he backpedalled as his opponent rose to his feet.

With a thin trail of blood leaking from his split forehead, the muscular brute looked even more demented now, and he let out a shout of fury, fists balled. He was going to need a little more work before he would go down quietly. He stepped forwards- only to receive another punch to the face.

Or a best of punch that Dean could muster. He was nearly stretching up on his toes as he swung his fist into Brick's face, and then followed up with two more. The big guy just stood there and took it; though to Dean it felt like he was sparring with a cinder block hanging from a length of steel cable. When one of his fists was blocked by a raised arm, he knew it was time to avoid another attack.

He stepped to the side to avoid a boot to the chest which would have knocked him onto his ass, and then responded with a kick to the groin. There was a whoosh of air from Brick's lungs, and then he stepped back, hands clutching at his privates. Dean took the oppourtunity to step forwards and swing his right fist into Brick's cheek, hard enough to nearly knock him off of his feet. Then he followed up with a left punch into his ribs, dropping him down on one knee- at the ideal height for more punches to the face.

"What's the matter?" he grunted, swinging his fists into the big man's face repeatedly, alternating between left and right punches, "can't handle it?" He counted up to five punches, and though his fists burned with the pain, the memory of Raccoon City's zombified population burned in his mind stronger. It was like a flood gate had opened, and he couldn't stop himself now.

Then suddenly Brick ducked underneath Dean's fists, grabbing him around the waist and lifting him off of the ground, pushing him backwards- out through the bathroom door and back into the diner proper, where the battered Black Devils had managed to get to their feet- only to have retreated to a safe distance while their largest member continued to tussle with this asshole who had picked a fight with them.

Dean's spine flared with white-hot pain as he was slammed up against the counter, his torso sprawled flat, before a massive pair of hands clamped down on his neck, trying to throttle the life from him. Brick's face was twisted into a gleeful, almost hungry smile as he squeezed down hard, his face a mess of fresh blood and throbbing bruises.

_No! I won't lose to this fucker, not after Raccoon City!_

Dean's hands reached over backwards, scrambling to grab anything behind the counter- a knife, a fork- anything that could do some damage. His fingers curled around something cold and metallic, and he instinctively swung it around- and scalding hot coffee which was in the glass pot he had just picked up splashed into Brick's eyes.

The hold on his throat ceased immediately, and Brick staggered back, howling in agony as his hands grabbed at his face protectively. Dean just watched him, still half-sprawled across the counter, breathing slowly, one eye screwed shut from the pain. The big man was then on his knees, his cries of pain having petered off into soft sobbing, his face starting to swell up and turn a sore shade of red. But Dean wasn't in the mood to offer any mercy, as he pushed himself off of the counter, walked up to Brick- and smashed the coffee pot across his face.

It shattered easily, but still hit with enough force to finally knock the big guy onto the floor face-first, where he lay without any kind of resistance or attempt to get back up. He just let out a tired groan as he lay there, apparently glad to finally be out of the fight. Dean continued to stare down at his huge, fallen body, before looking down at the plastic pot handle he still held in his right hand, before finally throwing it onto the big man's body.

"Here, keep the damn thing," he gasped, short on breath, only to hear a clicking sound as he turned slowly.

The Black Devils leader- apparently sick of watching his fellows get their asses handed to them- had dispensed with the formalities and had now drawn a .357 revolver, its chrome-plated exterior glinting in the light. A sly grin was creeping across his face.

"Typical," sighed Dean, not having the energy to muster any other reaction, "go for the easy win, eh?" The biker leader said nothing, instead preparing to pull the trigger-

_Bong!_

There was a hollow metallic sound as a frying pan smacked into the back of his head, and he hit the ground in less than half a second, the revolver flying from his grasp, groaning as he nursed the back of his skull. The diner's chef stood over him, putting the pan down on the counter casually.

"No one makes such a mess in my place!" he announced firmly, wiping his hands on the front of his filthy and greasy apron.

"Thanks man," sighed Dean as he leaned heavily against the counter. "Didn't know how I was going to"-

He was quickly silenced though when the chef reached behind the counter and withdrew a sawn-off shotgun from a hidden shelf, aiming it towards the beaten and bruised man's chest. "Shut up," he said instead, before sweeping the shotgun barrel towards the corner where the other Black Devils had retreated too, their hands raised as well. "Just shut up until the sheriff gets here. You'll all have hell to pay for making a mess of this diner!"

"Fuck," whispered Dean, only now realising the implications of picking a fight with a biker gang in a small town- namely, getting thrown in jail to rot. All he could do now, with a sawn-off pointed at him, was to comply with the fry chef's demands.

* * *

><p>A short while later, jail was exactly where he found himself- or at the very least, within the holding cell of the local sheriff's station. He sat alone at one side of the twelve by twelve foot cell, while lined up on the bench directly opposite him sat the Black Devils biker gang, some of them still clutching at their bodies, groaning softly in pain. All of them made sure to avoid his direct gaze though, including the muscle-bound Brick, who still held one hand to the side of his jaw, where Dean had smashed the coffee pot into his face. Their leader was the only one who glared daggers back, clutching a bag of ice to the back of his sore head.<p>

Dean glared straight back, though he hardly looked a picture of health himself. Though his bloody nose had been cleaned up, his face still bore some fresh bruises, some of them starting to turn over purple, his knuckles cut badly from smashing his fists into faces and bodies. His body throbbed in places as well, from where he had been slammed against the counter and into the walls and urinal of the bathroom by the hulking brute that he had eventually worn down and knocked out. And his neck was just starting to form the bruises from where he had nearly been throttled to death as well- a casual observer would think he had been involved in a car crash.

"Dean Travers?"

He glanced up at the mention of his name, finally breaking eye contact with the Black Devils leader. He saw the sheriff standing on the other side of the prison bars, a man of about his height with a thin moustache and rapidly receding black hair. "Come on- you're good to go. Harper put in a good word for you, though I seriously wonder why he'd go so far as to get a psycho like you sprung."

"Sheriff Harper's here?"

"Well yes," the other sheriff replied testily, "considering one of his deputies started a mass brawl in our local diner, I'd say he'd at least want to know."

Dean rose to his feet and moved to exit the cell as there was a turning of a key in a heavy lock and the barred door swung open, but as he moved to exit the sheriff blocked his path, looking him directly in the eye. "One more thing- we don't expect to see you anywhere near our little town again- unless you want to spend the rest of your life rotting behind bars. Is that perfectly clear?"

"Crystal- sheriff," muttered Dean, as he allowed himself to be lead out of the cell area obediently, the cell door swinging shut behind him. Once he was out of sight, several of the Black Devils sighed in blessed relief.

A few minutes later, Dean stepped out of the double glass doors that marked the front entrance to the Holm County police station, his jacket slung over one arm, wincing as the pain in his ribs flared up again. Standing at the bottom of the concrete steps, his arms folded in front of his chest, was Nelson Harper. Beneath the wide brim of his sheriff's hat, he didn't look impressed to say the least.

Dean slowly descended the steps until he was stood in front of the sheriff, and held the silence for a few seconds before speaking. "Look, chief, I just want to"-

"Don't you dare put me in this position ever again," snapped Harper, cutting him off, before jabbing a finger into the middle of his chest, "you're just damned lucky that Sheriff Walcott owed me a favour- and that they've been wanting to find an excuse to bust the Black Devils for a long time- otherwise I would have just been content to let you rot in there for a few days."

Dean tried to open his mouth to say something, but Harper wasn't finished yet.

"I mean, what the hell was going through your mind the second that you- an off-duty county law enforcement officer- started a mass brawl with a biker gang? Especially after everything that happened yesterday?"

"Damn it chief, they were itching for a fight!" retorted Dean finally. "I was trying to defend myself! How the hell was I supposed to know that the rest of them would pile in? One of them drew a gun, for fuck's sake"-

"Enough!" snapped Harper, waving his arm aggressively. "The witnesses said you threw the first punch. If they had started on you first then self-defence would have been believable, but Jesus Christ, Dean! How much damage do you intend to cause to yourself?"

"Chief, you don't understand what"-

"Exactly! No-one understands!" retorted Harper, starting to become exasperated. "No-one understands about what you've been going through, what's going on in your head- because you don't talk to anyone, save for your pretty little doctor in the city!"

Dean lowered his head, completely at a loss as to what to say next. Much as he loathed admitting it, Harper was right. He never talked to anyone close to him, never discussed what was going on in the maelstrom of emotions in his head- and now it had all come to a head as he engaged in a mass brawl with a biker gang. Anyone with a basic knowledge of psychology would have called it self-destructive behaviour. He never wanted things to come to this, but as a result of his own stubbornness, it had done.

Harper pulled out a set of keys from his pocket and tossed them on the ground at Dean's feet. "There. I managed to get them to take your father's truck out of the impound lot as well. Don't say I never do any favours for you." Dean sighed and bent down to retrieve them, but when he stood he saw that the sheriff wasn't done yet, as he leaned forwards, his features softening somewhat.

"Look," he began, "I've always been a good friend to your father and your grandfather- God rest his soul- so I hate it when I see you doing this to yourself. Sure, you only have some cuts and bruises now, but what if one of those bikers had stuck you with a switchblade? What then? Dean, I know I can never comprehend what you went through in Raccoon City exactly- what it was like after Ben died- but you can't let your fears rule your life. You need to find some way to let go of them, to get on with your life. For your own sake- and your family's sake."

And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving Dean alone with his thoughts. The bruised and battered deputy remained standing in place for a few minutes more, staring down at the ground, even as he heard the sheriff's SUV pull out of the lot, back towards Riverview.

With a tired sigh, he loped off to find his own way home.

* * *

><p>It was rapidly approaching 6 PM when he finally walked through the front door of the Travers farmhouse. He slammed the door behind him without locking it and leaned back against it, sighing once more, rubbing his eyes. He was surprised to find that there was no-one home by the time he had rolled down the dirt road up to the farm- none of the farmhands, and his parents weren't there either. Where they were was anyone's guess- probably out looking for him.<p>

But still, he was somewhat glad to find himself alone in the house, giving him time to figure out just how exactly he would explain why he spent the last few hours inside a jail cell with the biker gang that he had beaten half-senseless in a diner brawl. He pushed away from the door, and made his way towards the kitchen, tossing his jacket onto the coat stand in the hall. He walked into the kitchen, flicking the lights on, noticing that Grey standing outside in the backyard, his tail going like a helicopter rotor- clearly he'd realised that someone was home after all.

"Hey boy," said Dean as he opened the back door and allowed the dog to bound into the kitchen, jumping up at him. "Hey, hey, come on, daddy's pleased to see you too. Now here- get." He'd procured a doggy biscuit from the box stored beside the door and dropping it into the dog's mouth. Then the hound turned and bounded back outside, into the shade of the trees, to eat his snack alone.

Dean closed the door after the dog and sighed once again, walking back towards one of the cupboards and throwing it open to retrieve the bottle of whisky that Cameron and Travis had gotten for his birthday. He slammed it down on the countertop, retrieving a small glass from one of the other cupboards. He poured himself a single measure and downed it in a single gulp, the fiery liquid making his throat burn and tingle.

He gasped once it had hit his stomach, and then he quickly poured himself a second measure. That too, went down like molten gold, but he showed no signs of stopping, even as the bottle was raised to pour a third measure. Even now, Harper's words began to swim around in his head.

'_-what the hell was going through your mind...'_

'_How much damage do you intend to cause?'_

"I never intended to cause any damage," said Dean quietly as he stared at the whisky glass. "And look where that got me."

'_-you don't talk to anyone save for your pretty little doctor in the city!'_

'_-you can't let your fears run your life.'_

"Somehow, I think it's far too late for that," Dean muttered to himself, downing the third measure of whisky in an instant. He then chuckled dangerously as he considered pouring himself a fourth- despite the initial burn, he could already feel his aches and pains fading away- a welcome relief.

His chuckle rose up into a laugh that would have sounded dangerous to others, but he didn't care right now. The adrenaline from the diner brawl had helped numb the pain of the old memories before, and now the whisky was working as well as it could as an alternative. Part of him just wanted to slink away into a dark corner and drink himself to death- maybe then he could finally have peace.

"Pour one for me, will ya?"

He spun around faster than he ever had in his life, and nearly felt his legs give way beneath him when he saw the figure standing in the doorway into the hall- because it was like looking in a mirror. His Doppelganger- so far confined to his nightmares, to the inside of his skull- had somehow manifested itself into reality, right in front of him- almost as convincing as skin and bone. As ever, he appeared as a mirror image of himself- though this time his clothes were exactly the same as what Dean currently wore, a sly smirk creeping across his face.

"What's the matter?" the evil twin asked with a raised eyebrow, "cat got your tongue? Or maybe a zombie had it for a nice snack?"

"What the hell?" blurted Dean, steadying himself on the kitchen counter. "What the fuck are you...?"

"Doing here?" the Doppelganger finished. "Well that's simple- you let me out."

"I would never"-

"Well you did, sunshine. Maybe that whisky affected you more than you initially realised, genius." The Doppelganger pointed towards the whisky bottle on the side counter, of which Dean was quickly screwing the top back on and pushing away from him.

"I'm not listening to you," Dean growled, rubbing his forehead. "You're not real, you're just a figment of my imagination..."

"Keep telling yourself that, hotshot," the Doppelganger responded snidely, "and it might just come true eventually. But you can see me, you can hear me- that would make me real enough, wouldn't it?"

"Shut up," snapped Dean savagely, pushing past his evil twin, into the hallway, heading straight for the chest of drawers where he kept his old Beretta. He had no idea what use the gun would be against a hallucination, but having just downed a few good shots of whisky, he wasn't exactly thinking straight. But when he stooped down to open the bottom drawer, he realised that it was already opened- and that the cigar box was empty.

"Looking for this?"

He looked up to see his Doppelganger standing in the kitchen doorway, holding up the old Beretta 92 handgun, dangling it casually from his thumb and index finger, the latter looped through the trigger guard. Dean stood up slowly, eager not to exacerbate the situation- despite the fact that he was speaking to a delusion from his own mind.

"Hey, don't worry," the Doppelganger said, suddenly twirling the Beretta around his finger and tucking it into the back of his jeans waistband. "I'm not trying to make any attempts on anyone's life- I'm just here to talk."

"I talk to you enough anyway," retorted Dean, sliding the drawer shut and walking out of sight, into the lounge, but the Doppelganger entered from the other end of the room, by the door into the kitchen, blocking his advance. Blocked into his own living space, Dean shook his head and tutted loudly.

"Seriously, what the hell do you want?" he snapped.

"I think you know why," his evil twin replied casually, stepping into the room and approaching him slowly, so the two of them were face to face by inches, almost as though Dean were standing before a full-length mirror. "After everything that happened today...and yesterday, you need someone to talk to, someone who understands. And who better to understand you than me?"

"You don't know a damned thing," Dean growled.

"Do I?" the Doppelganger half-shouted, leaning forwards threateningly. There was a demented fire in his ears that unnerved Dean greatly. "I came out of your head, remember? I know all of your dirty secrets, all of your deepest thoughts- who better to advise you on how you should deal with everything that's happening? That pretty little doctor of yours doesn't have a clue, does she?"

Dean stepped away, head lowered. Despite the fact that every synapse in his body was screaming at him that his Doppelganger was lying, but that tiny little voice in the back of his mind hissed that he was right.

"The fact of the matter is," the Doppelganger continued, "is that you enjoyed it didn't you?"

"Enjoyed what?" snapped Dean in reply. The Doppelganger smiled like a shark.

"The violence- the killing," the Doppelganger explained. "You enjoyed it all, didn't you?"

"What?"

"Yes- those assassins from yesterday in the warehouse- you enjoyed watching them bleed, watching your bullets tear through their flesh and bone like a knife through paper. You were close enough to see the whites of their eyes a couple of times..."

"Shut up," growled Dean, shaking his head. "They fucking attacked me first, I was defending myself!"

"And what about Raccoon City?"

"What about it?" scoffed Dean.

"How many people did you kill when you stuck there?"

Dean furrowed his brow. "What? Fuck, they were zombies, I didn't have a choice"-

"Did you?" the Doppelganger interjected, that savage smile still not leaving his face. "There was literally nothing else that you could do to save them that you had to resort to putting a bullet in their head? You probably didn't care after the tenth victim you put down."

Dean fell silent as he mulled the possibilities over in his head. He could see the zombies again now, except this time he watched them topple one by one as he raised his arm and fired, each gunshot exploding a skull like a gore-filled balloon. Their blank faces- monstrous mockeries of their human selves- only served to highlight how tragic their current state was. And the bullet had been there only release from that curse- wasn't it?

"There wasn't anything else I could have done for them," he whispered, head lowered.

"There wasn't?" the Doppelganger sneered. "Guess it doesn't matter now- we'll never know will we? But enough of that talk- what about now?"

"What about it?"

"Those bikers," the Doppelganger smiled, "you wanted to kill them so badly, didn't you?"

"That's a damned lie!" Dean spat, turning his back on his imaginary antagonist.

"I'm inside your head 24/7 Dean, so I can read you like a book," the Doppelganger replied. "You might say you were defending yourself, sure- but you enjoyed it honestly, making them suffer like that."

"Shut up," was all Dean could manage, lacking the energy to engage his evil twin in a protracted argument.

"You wanted to kill them- didn't you?"

"Shut up!" Dean repeated, much more forcefully this time. Then he stepped forwards and grabbed the Doppelganger by the lapels of his jacket, pushing him back forcefully into the kitchen, up against the refriderator.

"I know you're a figment of my damn imagination," he continued, leaning in close. "You're not real, none of what you say is real, you don't know a damned thing!"

"That so?" asked the Doppelganger. "Well if that's the case, then you can get rid of me as easily as you bought me here in the first place...right?" Then he moved his arms up, and Dean moved back cautiously- but before he could even realise what was going on, the Doppelganger extended its hands and pushed something cold and metallic into Dean's hands-

"What the hell are you...?"

-and then he bought his hands up, so that Dean's Beretta- now clutched in his own hands- was pushed barrel-first against the Doppelganger's forehead.

"Shoot me."

"What?" gasped Dean, trying to pull his hands free, but the Doppelganger's grip was admirably tight.

"Go on- shoot me," his twin replied, his face remarkably calm despite having a gun barrel placed against his forehead. "If you're that eager to get rid of me, then just pull the trigger- blow me away"-

"Stop it"-

"-blow me away like you did to all those people in Raccoon City, like you did to those assassins from yesterday," the evil twin continued smoothly. "Live by the gun, die by the gun- that's how the saying goes, right?"

"No!" half-shouted Dean, trying to pull his arms away, but his evil twin was having none of it, and he pulled back forcefully.

"Do it- you know you want to. You just want to let all of that anger and hate out," he cooed, "so this is the way to do it- just one squeeze of that trigger, and it all goes away..."

"No! I won't do this!" pleased Dean, his grip sagging somewhat, his eyes screwed shut.

"_Do it!"_

He felt his finger curl and tighten around the trigger of the Beretta. Just as he was about to follow through and shut up the boasts of his evil twin, he heard another, reasonable voice in his head.

_Don't do it Dean- you're stronger than this, than him. One thing is true at least- you and him are the same, in theory- so that means he doesn't have you holding the gun to his head, you're holding that gun against-_

Dean understood in an instant and his eyes snapped open. His Doppelganger was gone, leaving him staring at the wall in front of him. And his hands were curled around his Beretta, the barrel angled back towards his face-

"Fuck!" he cried, throwing the pistol down on the kitchen counter and stepping back, only now realising that cold sweat was starting to bead on his forehead. The horrific implications came smashing into him as though a flood gate had been opened up, and his arms had to steady himself against the kitchen table, breathing harshly.

"Fuck..." he whispered, realising how close he had just come to killing himself then and there. He'd been skirting around the issue for far too long- it was much worse than he had given credit for.

"Dean?"

He nearly leapt out of his skin as he turned towards the voice. Lisa stood just within the doorway into the hall, still in her hospital scrubs- fresh from a recent shift at Richmond General. She just looked at him with an incredulous expression.

"Dean, what the hell are you doing?"

That was the answer he couldn't provide.

**A/N: And here we are again with another update. I will get around to updating Tales from the Necropolis sooner or later, I promise...**

**Metal Harbinger did pick up on it, and as his fighting skills are shown here again, I will discuss that Dean's fighting style was from an amalgamation of traditional boxing, and the brawling style of Nathan Drake from the Uncharted series- using the odd dirty trick and low blow in order to win in a fight against large numbers of a big guy, as you saw here.**

**But now things are about to step up a notch, as you will see in the next chapter. Until then, R & R as always, people.**


	7. Chapter 7: Consequences

Chapter 7: Consequences

**July 3****rd**** 1619 hours**

'_When me and Ben were still in High School, our Literature teacher always used to tell us that there are consequences to every action we take, every decision we make. It was only now that I started to think that the smug old bastard was right.'_

"Dean?"

He still couldn't say anything. He just continued to stand there in the kitchen, like a lemon, facing his sister. Looking into her bright green eyes, he knew that trying to cover up what had happened with a quick lie wouldn't work. He'd have to deal with the issue then and there.

"I"-

"You what?" she said sharply, cutting him off. He'd never in his life expect her to suddenly talk back to him that curtly. "Don't you dare try and talk down what I just saw!"

"And what did you see?" he responded, equally as sharp. Her sudden reply had caught him off guard suddenly, and he couldn't stop himself from snapping back like that.

"You were pointing that damned gun at your head!" she retorted, pointing towards the Beretta was just visible beside him on the kitchen counter, which he consciously slid away carefully so it was hidden behind him. Lisa then sniffed suddenly. "And how much of that have you had?" she asked, pointing at the whisky bottle.

"Not enough," he half-growled, walking into the living room, one hand running through his hair. "No matter what I do, the pain won't go away."

"Which pain is that, Dean?" Lisa asked, following after him closely, though he remained facing away. "Your emotional pain or your physical pain? Speaking of which, what the hell happened to you?" She reached out to touch his bruised face, but he turned away.

"I got into a diner brawl with a biker gang," he answered bluntly. "And then I got to spend a few hours stewing in a jail cell."

"What?" she gasped, eyes wide. "Why- why would you do something like that? You were always more careful than this Dean!"

"Well, they weren't very welcoming towards me," he answered. "Acting as though they had the right to tell me where I was welcome to park my ass and have a few coffees. Arrogant pricks deserved taking down a peg or two, so better me than someone else down the line."

"And what if something happened, hm?" she asked, pressingly. "What if one of them had drawn a gun on you?"

"One of them did," he replied. She blinked in surprise.

"The point is, what if something really bad had happened to you? You can't afford to get yourself laid up in hospital with a fatal injury!" his sister continued, her words taking on a pleading tone. "Mom and dad don't need to go through that! I...I'd hate to be the one to have to treat you if it came to that. Anyone but you, Dean."

He sighed deeply and turned away from her, looking out through the front window, into the yard, where he could see the red pick-up truck parked, the apple tree, the grain silo. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to put any of you through something like that."

"Then why do it?" she replied, walking around him so she could look him in the face once again. "I lost count long ago of how many times I came to your bedside- every time you woke up screaming bloody murder in the middle of the night. Shouting and crying about Ben, that you didn't want him to go just yet."

His head lowered once again, but she reached out and grabbed his chin, forcing his head around so she could look into those bright green eyes- the same eyes that seemed to have lost some of their light in recent years.

"Dean," she began, softly- "We all love you- not just me and mom and dad. Cameron, and Travis, and all the others you see regularly- they only want to help you move on from this. I know how close you and Ben were- he was a good man, and a good friend. But it's been three years, Dean. Even if you don't go with Chris and Jill- and frankly, I don't blame you if you don't- you have to make an effort to move on."

"I am making an effort," he whispered.

"You say that after you killed eight men who tried to kill you yesterday, and after what you did today?" she asked, drawing back, "no Dean, I don't think you are. No-one kills eight men and just acts as though it's just business as usual."

"They tried to kill me," replied Dean, his teeth gritted, "I was defending myself. Damn it Lisa," he growled suddenly, stepping back, his face twisted into an angry scowl now. "You don't have a fucking clue what's going on inside my head, do you?"

"Because you never talk to any of us!" she retorted sharply.

"Right, and you know exactly what its like, do you?" he responded sarcastically. "What it was like when I was stuck in that damn city? Hunted, hounded- by those fucking walking corpses and other things that shouldn't exist by logic's sake? How many people died? How many were lost? Jesus, no-one should be put through that shit! Face it, I'm alone in this..."

"Dean, don't say that," she answered, stepping forwards, but he pulled back aggressively.

"No!" he snapped. "Just stay out of this, Lisa! Stay out of my fucking head!" She looked at him with a shocked expression, aghast at what he had just said to her. And then an angry frown crossed her brow.

And then she stepped forwards and raised her left arm, slapping him across the face hard. He grunted slightly and stepped back, one hand going up to cover the fresh bruise to add to his existing list of injuries. He stared at her, too in shock to say anything-

-before he suddenly stepped forward aggressively, raising his own arm to deliver a retaliating slap.

"Go on!" Lisa screamed, almost into his face, and he faltered, hovering with his hand raised. "Go on, hit me! It's only right, isn't it? Let it out, Dean! Let all of that anger and sorrow you've got bottled up inside you! You never talk about it, so just let your fists do the talking, just like you did earlier today!"

He continued to stand there, staring right through his own sister, the one he was about to raise his hand against. Then he let out a scream of frustration and swung around, his outstretched hand sweeping a glass vase from the mantelpiece. It flew across the room and shattered against the wall. The tinkling of glass signalled another silence, undercut by Dean's harsh breathing. He stared at the spot of chipped wallpaper where the vase had smashed, and slowly turned towards his sister, tears forming in his eyes.

"Dean...you're my brother, you big idiot," she said quietly, her own tears forming. "And I love you- we all love you. And it kills me that we have to see you do this to yourself. For God's sake, you need to stop before you hurt yourself...or someone else. Please don't do this to yourself"-

When she broke down into wracking sobs, Dean knew then and there that he had messed up big time.

"Oh Lisa," he whispered, stepping forwards and embracing her tightly as she continued sobbing into his chest. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for being a selfish bastard- I'm so sorry that you've all had to suffer as well. It wasn't just me...that was suffering- you all were."

His sister's sobbing was all that greeted him.

* * *

><p>Half an hour later, they were both sat on the couch in the living room, as she dabbed some cotton wool soaked in disinfectant against his fresh cuts and bruises. Though the swelling had gone down somewhat, the discolouration remained- and would linger for a few more days at least.<p>

He'd spent the best part of those thirty minutes just talking, about what he saw in Raccoon City- watching its civilians rise from the dead as hungry monsters, watched his comrades die by the dozen at the Raccoon Street barricades, watched as the remainder of the U.B.C.S Delta Platoon sacrificed themselves to ensure he and Ben escaped- every little dirty detail, including the sickening parts- Dean's mercy killing of the U.B.C.S scout Taylor Drecker in the grounds of the Raccoon Zoo came to mind. It was safe to say that he was emotionally spent, even as he finished off his story surrounding Ben's death.

"-it was his choice, I know that," he explained, as his sister finished dabbing at the cut across his cheek, "but still- I shouldn't have put him into that position. It was far too much to ask of anyone, even Ben."

"Ben just acted as he would any other time," Lisa replied, as she dropped the cotton wool into the bowl beside them and dried her fingers off on a towel. "You can't change what's happened in the past"-

"I know that," replied Dean, "but I still can't help but feel that things could have turned out differently if I had been faster to act"-

"Yes- you could have been the one who was killed."

There was a dull silence after that statement, and Dean sighed once again. "Yeah- there's that fact. It has crossed my mind more than once..."

"Well don't dwell on it," Lisa urged. "You've suffered enough; you don't need to make it worse."

"I know, I know," he replied, walking through into the kitchen, heading straight for the whisky bottle.

"Dean, no," said Lisa as she realised what he was heading towards, rising to her feet. "That won't help you either."

"I've already figured that out," he replied, unscrewing the top of the bottle- and then turning it upside down as he poured the remaining contents down the sink, the 'glug glug' as the liquid poured out down the plughole being heard. Once the deed was done, he screwed the top back on calmly and set the empty bottle back down on the counter, turning to face his sister.

"Besides, I was never a big whisky drinker- it just took the edge off of my aches and pains," he stated with a slight smirk. Lisa giggled at his display of gallows humour, the type he always used to fall back on in the past whenever things became too serious. And then he returned to his normal serious persona, his smile fading away.

"Look, Lisa? I know that I haven't been the easiest person to be around the last three years," he explained.

"Dean, you went through what any person shouldn't have had to put up with," Lisa retorted, cutting him off mid-flow. "its okay- really, it was. Like I said, you were my brother, and I love you despite everything else- you big idiot."

"Very funny," he snickered in response.

"Dean, you were always the one who looked out for me over the early years," she continued candidly, "all through to when you left home eight years ago. It's my turn to start paying you back for all that time."

"You don't need to pay me back," replied Dean, shaking his head, "that was just me being a good big brother, watching out for his little sis." In the background, Grey started to bark suddenly- no doubt spooked by the birds out in the forest, as he often was. As such, they paid little attention to him.

"Well, even so- I still want to make up for everything you did for me," she replied. "Even if that means coddling you like a child at times."

"Well, I guess I can let you do that from time to time," he replied with a sly grin.

Outside, Grey still hadn't stopped barking- normally he would have shut up after at least a minute of barking his furry head off. Dean turned his head and glanced out the window, watching as the husky made his way along the length of the wall at the back of the yard, tail going furiously. "Strange- he must have caught scent of something he _really _hates," he reasoned, turning away. "He's not normally this"-

Grey's barking suddenly gave way to a painful yelp, and then silence.

Dean immediately turned to look out the window. He craned to look towards the far end of the yard, and he saw Grey's form lying on the grass, unmoving. "Fuck," he whispered, grabbing for the Beretta which had been lying on the countertop beside him until now. Lisa jerked up at his response.

"Dean, what are you-?" she began to ask, but quickly trailed off when she saw the gun in his hand. He turned and saw the concerned look in her eye, which quickly focused on the Beretta in his hand.

"Lisa, stay back," he urged, peering out of the window again briefly and then back at her. "Those guys that came after me the other day- I have a feeling that they're not done with me yet"-

The kitchen window exploded under a hail of gunfire.

* * *

><p>"You just let him go off by himself?"<p>

Deputies Farro and Cohen stood beside the dispatch desk in the Riverview Police Department, watching the confrontation between Sheriff Harper and Joseph Travers warily. Sure, Dean's old man was pretty likeable when you got to know him, but when he was in a bad mood it was a different kettle of fish. He was like a force of nature- and Sheriff Harper was proving himself a brave man by standing in front of him just taking it like that, arms folded in front of his chest, defiant.

"Joe, I admit that I should have maybe stayed with him," Harper began, "but he's a grown man, Joe- he can look out for himself."

"Right, was that before or after he beat eight men in a diner to a bloody pulp?" snapped Joseph in response. His entire body was tensed up, like a coiled spring. Or a rattlesnake preparing to strike like lightning. "Damn it, he is in a really bad place right now Nelson! What if he hurts someone else? What if he hurts himself?"

"You think it'll come to blows?" asked Farro, leaning in close to Cohen to mutter in his ear.

"What?" hissed Bob in reply, "Will, these two have known each other for years- sure they've had some...'disagreements' in the past, but they've never hit each other. At least, I think..." They glanced over towards the two arguing men cautiously. Joseph showed no sign of backing away from the dispute.

"-it's like running into a brick wall, Joseph!" urged Harper. "Dean was always a quiet one, but any time we tried to talk to him he always brushed us off. I mean, what the hell exactly did you expect me to do?"

"To try harder," replied Joseph glibly.

"Joseph, please," pleaded Marie Travers, who for the most part had stood off to the side as her husband and the town sheriff argued. "This isn't helping anyone!"

"Damn it, Marie!" Joseph snapped, turning on her. "Our son is in the wind, in a potentially vulnerable state! What if he ends up arrested and in jail again somewhere? Somewhere where we can't get any favours? What if he's dead in a ditch somewhere..."

"Hey, don't you dare talk like that!" his wife replied resolutely. "No, the last three years hasn't exactly been easy, but he's still our son, and he loves us. He just needs...some space."

"That's exactly what worries me," replied Joseph. "That he needs so much space that he doesn't come back at all." Nelson Harper sighed and turned his head away. His expression looked a little guilty.

Cohen and Farro nearly jumped out of their skins when the phone on the dispatch desk starting to ring, earning them a few confused stares from the Travers couple and the sheriff. "Sorry, said Cohen sheepishly as he picked up the phone. "Riverview Police Department..."

"Come on, I was planning on heading out to look for him when you showed up," said Harper softly. "You're perfectly welcome to come with me"-

"Oh, so now you're making an effort?" snapped Joseph sarcastically.

"Hey come on Joe," replied Harper, "I'm only trying to"-

"Chief, chief!" said Cohen breathlessly, suddenly inserting himself into the conversation.

"Do you mind?" snapped Harper irritably a she whirled around, "we're in the middle of a conversation here"-

"It can't wait, chief!" interrupted Cohen, glancing at the Travers' as he did. "We've...had reports of shots fired- at the Travers estate."

The shock which registered across Marie's face was plain for all to see, while Joseph's reaction was just to turn and sprint out of the station's front doors at full pelt, determined to get back to the house on time. "Joseph!" his wife called, taking a single step in the direction he had left in, only to be stopped by sheriff Harper.

"Come on, you can ride with us," the sheriff said, glancing between Marie and Cohen. He grabbed for the keys to his SUV and his wide-brimmed hat. "Bob, grab the shotgun- we might be needing it if those bastards from the other day have crawled out of the woodwork again. And Will?"

"Yes chief?"

"Give the guys up at Charlottesville a call- we might need the back-up."

* * *

><p>Lisa let out a piercing scream as the entire length of glass window in the kitchen shattered, and Dean leapt up and boldly pulled her to the floor, both arms wrapped around her slight frame, protecting her from the rain of glass shards. The Beretta tumbled from his fingers as he did, and it landed on the floor somewhere near to the oven. Above their heads, the gunfire continued, shattering the front of each glass cabinet in the room and methodically stitching staggered lines across the far wall, knocking pots and pans from their display hooks.<p>

_Fuck, good thing that mom and dad weren't here..._

The barrage continued for several more seconds, to the extent that the entire kitchen window had been shattered out of its frame, and then it stopped suddenly. Dean dared to peer up from his floor position, Lisa half-buried beneath him. He looked around at the kitchen, at the state it was in. The Travers kitchen, once a pleasantly-decorated space, now resembled a bomb-site, the far wall practically reduced to splintered wood and shredded wallpaper, the main window non-existent, and countless pots, pans, and other utensils reduced to debris.

_There was nothing careful or planned about this attack- they really want me dead. _

"Is it over...?" Lisa asked suddenly, her voice barely a whisper.

"Don't know," responded Dean. "They're probably moving around for a better angle to shoot into the house. Come on, we can't stay here," he then finished, helping her up from the floor carefully, away of the glass which carpeted the floor. "We need to get to the phone and call Sheriff"-

Suddenly the mystery gunman had a fresh bead on them, and even more bullets began to thump into the outside wall, a couple of them passing cleanly through the wall beside them- nearly grazing Lisa's head. She screamed again, and Dean quickly pulled her away from the wall and into the hallway. Then he shoved her through into the lounge hard enough that she fell to the floor, close enough to avoid the bullets that continued to buzz at them like angry bees- punching through wood and plaster with ease.

Dean threw himself backwards, falling across the stairs, barely getting down in time as more bullets splintered the wood just above his head, a couple of them destroying the stair banisters in a spray of tiny splinters, a couple of them digging into his cheek. He seethed and grabbed a hand to the cuts, just as the gunfire ceased for the second time in as many minutes.

"Dean? Dean!" called his sister from the lounge. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he grunted in response, "just stay down Lisa! It's not worth the risk!"

"But I could reach the phone if I just"-

"Don't!" he barked back, still slumped across the stairs. "They could be right outside the house"-

He suddenly heard footsteps crunching on the gravel path which lead from the back field right up to the back door. His long-range assault having failed, the mystery gunman was going for the more direct method. "He's about to come inside," said Dean to himself, before raising his voice slightly. "Lisa, stay there! Keep your head down!"

"Dean! What are you doing?" Lisa asked, though he was already on his feet and moving into the kitchen in a crouched position, keeping his head and other fleshy parts out of direct sight through the window. He came up beside the door, just as it crashed open with a single, solid kick, and the barrel of an assault rifle nosed inside. There was no time to grab for his Beretta.

_Now or never!_

Dean lunged up, grabbing onto the weapon's barrel and wrenching it back and forth, trying to prise it out of the gunman's hands. The mystery assassin squeezed the trigger, and a hail of gunfire unloaded into the ceiling. Lisa screamed again from the lounge. Dean pushed the rifle to the side and thrust his knee into ribs protected by Kevlar, but still knocked some air from the man's lungs.

A forehead smashed into Dean's nose, and then the rifle butt smashed into the side of his head, almost knocking him for six. He staggered backwards, his world almost spinning, and then he realised the situation he was in and twisted his body sideways to narrowly avoid another burst of gunfire that would have taken his head off otherwise. He looped his left arm around the rifle and clamped down hard, smashing his fist into the assassin's face. His target stumbled back against the fridge, and Dean ripped the assault rifle free and tossed it across to the other side of the kitchen, finally getting a good luck at it.

It was a H&K G36, a German-made assault rifle well-known for its stability and ease of use, though this one was modified with a thermal optics scope and a drum-magazine which gave it a fifty-round capacity, letting it perform almost as effectively as a light machine gun to lay down an impressive amount of firepower. This bastard clearly didn't want to take any prisoners when he launched this attack- he would have murdered the entire Travers clan if they had been home at the time.

He also got a good look at the assassin himself. Almost like the bastards from the previous day, he wore an almost full-black set of military attire, including boots, tactical vest, fingerless gloves and a turtleneck sweater; the pouches on his vest overflowing with spare ammunition, a sheathed combat knife, and more besides. Dean's vision cleared fully, and he furrowed his brow when he realised who it was.

"Perry?"

Perry Arnold glared straight at him, none of the familiarity in his eyes. He wiped away a trail of blood from above his eyebrow. "You should have known this was going to happen," he said menacingly, before drawing a combat knife from his vest and lunging for him. Dean suddenly had a flashback of being in that dusty warehouse, avoiding the frenzied assault of an Umbrella assassin.

The knife whistled as it hacked through the thin air where Dean's head had been, before Perry twirled the blade around and thrust it towards his opponent's ribs. Dean blocked it with a balled fist, smashing his other hand into Perry's face- he stumbled back a few steps, and Dean lunged at him, throwing a haymaker punch. But just as quickly, Perry spun the knife around into his right hand, lifting his left arm up.

He hooked his hand underneath Dean's arm and threw him over his shoulder in a classic judo take-down. Dean hit the ground hard, some of the glass cutting into his skin, and he had to roll sideways as Perry tried to bring his boot down on his face. As he rolled, Dean lashed out with his elbow, catching Perry in the nose and knocking him back. Then he scrambled to his feet and lunged straight at his would-be assassin.

One hand wrapped around Perry's wrist, while the other braced across his throat and pushed him back against the kitchen counter. Then he smashed Perry's hand against the edge of the counter, the knife dropping from his fingers with the third strike. Then Perry wrenched his right arm free and smashed his outstretched palm into Dean's face, pushing his head back, following up with a cross punch that nearly sent him sprawling to the floor again. Even as Dean skidded back on his heels- hands grasping frantically across the countertop to get some balance- Perry came at him again.

Dean was briefly reminded of a brutal and frantic dance- if he didn't react fast enough, Perry Arnold would kill him without a second thought.

His hand closed around the empty whisky bottle- ironically, the only piece of glass which hadn't been broken during Perry's initial salvo. He picked it up by the neck and swung it back, smashing it across Perry's raised arm. The assassin cried out and faltered somewhat, and Dean dropped the bottleneck as he then tackled into Perry, slamming him back against the fridge, pinning him in place. Then he smashed his fist into Perry's stomach twice, bringing his aim up into his ribs and finally his face- with a cross punch that put Perry's nose out of line with a brutal crunch.

"My turn," was all the assassin said in response as he bought his arms up savagely, knocking Dean's grip off of his person.

Then he clamped his hands across the back of Dean's head, pulling it down so he could ram his knees up four times, before pushing him sideways and then smashing his elbow into his opponent's nose. Blood erupting from Dean's nostrils and stained the front of his shirt. He didn't have the luxury of processing this though, when Perry's flying knee smacked into his chin and he went flailing back into the lounge. Scrunched up into the corner, Lisa screamed hysterically as her battered and bloodied brother staggered into view- and close on his heels was the man who was here to kill him.

_This son of a bitch fights a lot differently from those bastards at the warehouse- need to stay on my toes!_

Dean raised his arms to block a punch to his cheek, only to receive a boot to the stomach, and a second spinning kick that knocked him onto his ass into one of the chairs. He looked up- vision half-obscured with blood and pain, to see Arnold closing in for the kill, and he lashed out with his foot, catching him in the shin, then following up with a snap punch to the chin that pushed him back a little more. Then Dean bounced back to his feet and landed a quick three-punch combo into Perry's ribs, ending with a short uppercut which snapped his head back and made him step back a couple of feet-

-and he quickly bounced back, advancing on Dean boldly. He was showing no signs of slowing down.

Dean tried to land a few more punches, but Perry blocked or dodged each one in turn, trying to smash his own fist into Dean's busted nose. But Dean ducked to the side, then grabbed onto Perry's hand and twisted it around, trying to pin it behind Arnold's back- but the assassin suddenly pulled an unexpected move of his own, twisting his own body and performing a quick flip in the air, so that he landed on his feet, holding onto Dean's wrist.

_Holy-_

A spinning boot smacked into Dean's chin, and he flew sideways into the same chair he had fallen into previously, his world spinning. Perry walked towards him calmly, a sick smile spreading across his face- its perversity not dulled by the painful bruises and cuts on his face. "Nice try," he began, "but you can't be allowed to continue living."

Then there was a piercing female cry, and Perry turned in time to meet Lisa Travers as she charged out of her hiding place in the corner, her hands grabbing onto Perry's neck. Though her slight frame meant she was nowhere near his match in combat, sheer adrenaline and the need to protect her family compelled her to fight. Perry turned sharply to the side in an attempt to throw her off, but she held on, fingernails digging deep into his cheeks and drawing blood. He screamed in pain.

"You fucking _bitch!_" he screamed, pulling one arm free and _punching _her at full force across the face. She let out a brief shout and collapsed to the floor beside the TV set, one side of her face glowing an angry red. She held her hand across the injury, looking up with wide eyes as Perry towered over here, withdrawing another knife from a holster hidden at his wrist. This new blade had a dull blue sheen to it, and featured several small holes punched through the steel.

"Maybe I'll cut your pretty little head off and hang it over my door," he added, twirling the blade around his finger. "A little bonus for this job."

Dean saw this entire scene from his position on the chair, and felt the anger boil up inside him once more. He gritted his teeth and leapt to his feet, adrenaline fuelling him on. He charged straight into Perry with the force of a freight train, wrapping his arms around his waist and lifting him off of his feet, carrying him into the kitchen once more and smashing him against the counter.

"Don't you fucking touch her!" he screamed, linking his fists and smashing them across Perry's face with such incredible force that he was smashed clean off of his feet. He fell to the floor, jumping up to slash at Dean again, but a second punch to his face cancelled that idea outright as he was knocked even further backwards. "You piece of shit!"

Perry's blade sliced open the sleeve of his jacket and drew blood, but Dean was so hopped up on his own rage that he didn't even register the injury, smashing his fists into Perry's face three times in rapid succession. The third punch slammed the assassin to the floor once more, the blade flying out of his hand and landing tip-down in the kitchen table surface with a 'thunk'.

Dean let out a gasp and stumbled back, supporting himself on the kitchen counter. He wiped a hand across his face, and stared at the blood that had been gushing from his nose minutes beforehand. He then glanced up at Perry Arnold, who was slowly pulling himself to his feet. His own smashed nose seemed to mirror Dean's, blood staining the front of his clothing. He only spent a few moments looking at the state he was win before pulling the knife out of the table and approached for another attack.

_Stubborn prick, aren't you?_

Perry's blade slashed towards Dean's neck, and the ex-cop leaned back to avoid the slash, and then raised his arm to block a second attack. There was a dull thud as Perry's arm froze in mid-air, then Dean twisted his arm and clamped around Perry's wrist, tightening and trying to force him into dropping the blade. But Perry relented; trying to smash his free fist into Dean's busted nose, but Dean ducked under that attempt and rammed his forehead into Perry's face instead. With another bony crunch, the assassin stepped back, and Dean slammed him off of his feet with another uppercut.

Perry leaned back on his shoulders and kipped back onto the balls of his feet, charging straight at Dean, who bobbed to the side, letting the assassin's knife embed itself into the kitchen counter. Then Dean moved in and smacked his fist into Perry's ribs, but the assassin lashed out with a side kick into Dean's stomach to push him back into the lounge. He nearly fell over the glass coffee table when Perry was coming at him again, the knife held in a down-pointed manner. But Dean wrapped his arms around Perry's armpits, lifting him off the floor and slamming him through the table head-first. Lisa screamed once more at the sudden violence.

Then they were both on their feet, Perry trying to slice his knife across Dean's exposed throat, but Dean was stronger than his opponent, and squeezed down on Perry's wrist. Then he grabbed the knife from his fingers, spun it around, and drove the tip of the blade down onto Perry's shoulder. The assassin cried out, and then Dean planted a boot into the centre of his chest and kicked- sending him sprawling backwards over the chair that Dean himself had fallen onto earlier.

And with that, it was silent, save for Dean's harsh breathing and Lisa's soft sobs from the corner, one dainty hand still clutching at where Perry had struck her across the face. After what seemed like an eternity, he took a shaky step back, and then wavered before he suddenly dropped to one knee, groaning in pain. The adrenaline had worn off, and he could feel the blood starting to leak out of his busted nose and the numerous small cuts, as well as the throbbing of his bruises. His whole body felt a little tender after that fight.

"Dean?" He looked around at his sister, tears flowing freely from her eyes now. He rose to his feet and moved over towards her, his arms opened.

"Hey, hey," he whispered, putting his arms around her softly, letting her sob into his chest, "it's okay, it's okay- it's over now. That prick will never hurt you again."

"He came to our house, Dean," she replied, looking up at him for a brief moment. "He- he would have killed us all, you and me, and mom and dad"-

"Don't think about it," he said, trying to raise a smile, "don't think like that- just...just don't."

_Click._

He seized up at the metallic click, and then turned his head slowly, making sure that he kept his sister shielded with his own body the whole time. Perry Arnold was on his feet once more, despite the blood that continued to cascade from the knife stuck into his shoulder, and the countless scars on his face from being planted through the glass table. There was a USP .45 handgun in his right hand, a laser pointer hovering around Dean's chest height, over his heart.

"Why?" asked Dean, shaking his head, "I worked with you- trusted you for fuck's sake! Why? How much did they pay you for this crap?"

"It was just a job," spat Perry, despite the fact he was very shaky on his feet by then, "this was bound to happen, after everything you saw Dean. There's a consequence to every action." Dean knew what the bastard meant- he had bought this all on himself and his family by surviving Raccoon City. He may have lived through that nightmare, but in doing so he had put a target on his back, on the back of everyone he loved. All that Perry had to do was pull the trigger, and the deed would be done. Dean Travers- threat to Umbrella's interests- would be dead and buried.

_Click._

Perry glanced sideways towards the doorway. Joseph Travers stood there, unwavering, his old double-barrelled shotgun held in his hands, aim fixed on Perry Arnold's chest. The Vietnam veteran just shook his head very slowly before he spoke up.

"Look son- I renounced violence a long time ago. But if you try and hurt one of my children again, then I won't think twice about forgetting that promise, mark my words."

Dean knew that his father wasn't kidding with that statement, and part of him just wanted Perry to put the gun down and save himself from a painful death- at that close range, buckshot would make a hell of a mess, even through Kevlar. Perry looked over at Dean, his face still curiously vacant.

"Don't do it," said Dean, shaking his head. Perry continued to stare at Dean, as though processing his decision, and then he started to lower his arm.

"Good," said Joseph, deathly still, "now you just put that gun down and slide it over here"-

Perry Arnold spun around, raising his pistol to fire.

"No!" cried Dean.

BOOM!

There was the ear-splitting discharge of Joseph's shotgun going off, combined with Lisa's panicked scream, and then the tearing of flesh and sinews as 12-gauge buckshot ripped through Arnold's vest and tore open his chest cavity. He didn't even have a chance to cry out as his body was pitched back off of his feet, slamming into the wall with enough force to shake the light fixtures before he hit the ground hard. Then it was finally quiet in the Travers household- Lisa was so horrified by then that her sobs had fallen silent, her lungs so over-worked they had nearly seized up.

"Hey, hey," whispered Dean, holding onto her shoulders tightly. "It's over, it's over," he added, helping her to sit down on the only seat in the lounge which hadn't been shredded by gunfire or destroyed during Dean and Perry's scuffle. Then he turned and looked at Perry's body- his face was still locked in that passive expression, even as his chest had been reduced to bloodied pulp and exposed bone- and then at his father. Joseph looked straight at Perry's body, a horrified expression on his face.

"Dad?" Dean asked quietly, stepping up to his father slowly, hands raised. "Dad? Dad, it's over," he added, reaching out and taking hold of the shotgun's barrel, lowering it slowly and then taking it from his hands. Joseph didn't resist in any way. "Dad?"

Joseph finally looked around at his son, his expression never changing. "I warned him, didn't I? I fucking warned him..." Dean couldn't think of anything else to say in response to that, even as he could hear the sirens closing in once again.

* * *

><p>The Travers household had become the latest site for Dean's early mid-life crisis. Riverview officers, alongside Charlottesville P.D officers, sifted through the mess which had been left by Perry's G36, while a couple more wheeled away his body- now wrapped in a bodybag- towards an ambulance. Dean- perched on the swinging seat on the open porch alongside his sister- watched the scenes unfolding, the bright red and blue lights straining his vision. One hand was wrapped carefully around Lisa's shoulder, as she held an ice bag to her swollen face. He had no such aid, even if half his face now resembled a beetroot.<p>

Elsewhere, another officer cradled the limp body of Grey out of the house and into another vehicle. The poor mutt's only crime had been to pick up on Perry Arnold's scent and go to investigate, which earned him a single strike from the Umbrella assassin's knife to shut him up. They'd had the poor dog ever since just before Dean came back from Raccoon City, and the pet hadn't deserved something like this. Yet another sin to be added to Umbrella's ever-growing shit list.

"How did it come to this?" Lisa asked quietly. Several yards away, Joseph gave his statement to Harper, his wife at his side as would be expected. She looked close to tears, as Joseph recounted his slaying of Perry Arnold to the sheriff.

"Come to what?" asked Dean, sounding miles away.

"To this," she said, waving her free hand around. "He came to our house, Dean. You know fine well they're after you, but they would have easily levelled this entire house to do it!"

"I know," he sighed, shaking his head. He looked as though he had survived a bomb blast, what with the numerous cuts and bruises, and the tears in his clothing from where Perry's knife had come a little too close. His nose had been checked over and cleaned- it wasn't broken, but it had come awfully close. "After what I saw in Raccoon City, I made myself a target- and all of you as well. This is all my fault, there's no denying that." That last remark prompted another silence, before he saw Sheriff Harper turn away from his parents and make his way over, standing just beyond the porch. He looked at the two Travers siblings for a while, considering his words, before he spoke up again.

"Well, you sure are making a habit out of leaving a great mess wherever you go," he said finally with a raise of his eyebrows.

"Chief," said Dean slowly, "considering that I already know that this is all my fault and I've put my entire family at risk, I am really not in the mood for another"-

"Hey," said Harper, pulling his hands back in a placating gesture, "I didn't mean it like that- honestly. Perry Arnold came into your house and tried to kill you, and you were well within your rights to defend yourself."

"If you say so chief," sighed Dean, shaking his head.

"-or rather, whoever that was," added Harper, indicating towards the body bag as it was loaded into the ambulance bound for Charlottesville.

"What do you mean?" asked Dean, as Harper passed him a brown file. Inside was the picture of a balding man in his early fifties, alongside a sheet showing personal information and what looked like a coroner's report. "What the hell?"

"Meet Perry Arnold- or rather, the _real _Perry Arnold," responded Harper. "He was a retired stock broker from New York who died from a massive coronary back in 1995. Whoever the fake Perry Arnold was simply took his name and other personal info so he could infiltrate the Riverview Police Department."

"Wow, they really thought of everything, didn't they?" replied Dean sarcastically.

"We're having the body shipped back to Charlottesville," Harper explained- "maybe then we can try and find out who he is exactly and where he fits into all of this." He thumbed back towards the ambulance as it drove away from the farmhouse, though the police units remained behind as they canvassed the area. "I spoke to Randolph as well and got you all a room booked at the motel for the night- just until we manage to fix the damage Fake Perry left."

"Thanks Chief," smiled Dean, nodding. Lisa even managed a little smile.

"Don't say I never do anything for you," Harper responded dryly, "you two look after your parent's now- they got quite a shock after everything that's happened tonight." And with that understatement, he turned and walked away slowly.

"You know, I always used to think that Nelson Harper was a scary man," Lisa interjected, "but really, he's quite the caring guy."

"Yep- he really is," replied Dean, before turning his gaze towards his parents, having now finished giving their statements. He noticed that his dad still had that almost vacant expression on his face, the same one he had first worn since he had gunned down Perry Arnold (or whoever that guy was meant to be). "Hold on a minute, I need to talk to dad," he said, rising to his feet and walking over towards Joseph Travers. He spent a few moments comforting his mother with a hand on her shoulder, apologising once more for bringing this shit onto their doorstep. As she left to be with her daughter, Dean turned towards his father.

"Hey dad," he said, putting a hand on the older man's shoulder. Joseph's head only turned slowly to register his son's greeting. "That was a bit hairy back there for a moment wasn't it?" he then added, with a nervous smile, though his father still didn't react to the attempt at making him feel better. He just turned away and sighed deeply, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

"Look, dad," Dean said softly, becoming more serious, "I don't know what's going through your mind right now, but if you hadn't had pulled the trigger, he would have killed you"-

"I broke my promise."

Dean screwed up his features in confusion. "What?"

"When I left the army, I promised that I would never take another human life," Joseph replied, looking at his son, tears forming in his eyes. "And now"- he glanced around at the scenes surrounding them, of the police and forensics doing their thing, of their home violated by someone with the intent of killing them all in cold blood- "and now look- I took a man's life, son. And with that come the flashing lights and the endless red tape..."

"Dad, if you hadn't done it he would've killed us all," replied Dean in a low voice. "This is not your fault...it's mine. I put a target on everyone's back when I escaped that city 3 years ago."

"If you say so," sighed Joseph lowering his head. He continued watching as the remaining police officers finished their canvas of the property and huddled around to discuss their findings, one of them holding onto the assassin's G36, the other holding onto his knives and his USP.

"I never did finish that story, did I?" Joseph added, out of the blue.

"What?"

"That story- about us being sent to find those POW's in Vietnam," Joseph explained.

* * *

><p><em><strong>March 19<strong>__**th**__** 1968, 1321 hours local time, somewhere in the Vietnam jungle...**_

_Williamson was the first to go down. Joseph had heard the medic trying to shout something in warning, but then there was a whistle of bullets travelling at high speeds and blood burst from his shoulder, spinning him around and onto the muddy ground._

"_Fuck!" cried Larkin, looking around at the sudden event, before sighting his rifle and shooting another VC fighter through the face. "Adam's down!" Then he reached out to grab the medic by the collar of his shirt and dragged him into cover behind the pile of logs the sniper had been nestled behind. Williamson groaned the entire way, blood squirting from his wound, even as Larkin hurried to apply a medical dressing._

_McKendrick was further down the field- barely ten feet away from the paddy fields themselves- and as such was closer to the immediate danger. He unloaded the remainder of his Commando's clip into the tree line and then prepared to duck down into cover to reload- just as a pair of VC fighters armed with RPK machine guns appeared. The scout just had about enough time to glance up and look surprised, before the hail of gunfire cut him down, the deluge of lead hammering his corpse into the mud._

"_Fuck!" yelled Swift, swinging his M60 around to return the favour. The two VC went down, but the damage was already done- McKendrick was well and truly dead, reduced to bloody pulp. The metallic glint of his dog tags reflected back from within the pile of smoking meat left over. _

"_Goddamnit!" yelled Joseph, reloading his own rifle, "pull back! Pull back into the trees!" A fairly standard engagement had been reduced to a retreat within the space of a minute, and if they stuck around any longer then they'd all be dead. Hanson and Swift rose, fired a few shots into the trees, and began bounding back up the slope towards their comrades. _

_They both made it about 20 yards before at least a dozen VC fighters suddenly burst out from the jungle on their left flank and opened fire. Swift turned, eyes wide, but didn't get the chance to raise his M60 before a bullet hit him in the shin and dropped him screaming to the ground. Just as well, otherwise he would have lost his head half a second later as more gunfire streaked over at head height. Hanson turned and managed to fire three shots before a lucky shot hit him in the left wrist, tearing off his hand. He fell onto his rear, screeching in agony as blood jetted out of the severed stump. That screaming lasted all of three seconds as one of the VC caught up and hacked his machete through the rifleman's neck. Hanson's screams cut off into a bloody gurgle._

_Half of Joseph's squad had been taken out of action within less than thirty seconds, and it didn't look so good for the rest of them. He turned and fired on full auto, teeth gritted, cutting down three more fighters, including the one who had just executed Hanson. Beside him, Larkin and Williamson continued firing, the latter laying on the muddy ground firing his M1911 pistol with one hand. But it was clear that they were doomed, even as three more VC fighters rounded the side of the house beside them and charged at them boldly._

_Williamson managed to shoot the first one through the head, but the second was close behind, driving the saw-edged bayonet attached to his AK-47 into the medic's ribs. Then Larkin was screaming as he swung the stock of his Commando into the fighters' face, shattering his jaw and knocking him onto his back. Then Joseph tackled the third one head-on, shoulder-charging him to the ground. Then he was hovering over the slight Asian man, stamping his boot into the middle of his throat, and snapping his neck with a quick twist. Then he swung around, his rifle raised to finish off the rest of the bastards-_

_Before the stock of an AK-47 smashed into the back of his skull, knocking him out cold._

_When he awoke hours later, he found himself in hell. The VC had dragged him and the others back to one of their subterranean hideouts, buried within the mountain caves. Their prison was a series of bamboo cages submerged in several feet of freezing cold water, in the lowest point of the caverns. Joseph had just about enough strength to hold onto the bars to keep his head and neck above the freezing liquid. From somewhere above him, he could hear the shouting and wailing of others being subjected to the VC's brutal interrogation methods. _

"_Joe!"_

_Luckily, he wasn't entirely alone. Swift had joined him in the prison, in the cage beside him, and he looked in one piece, save for the bruises and the painful-looking cut above his right eyebrow from an AK-47's stock. "You allright, sarge?"_

"_I think so," replied Joseph, craning his neck around to look towards the entrance into the 'prison'- a wooden boardwalk above the water that lead from an open cave entrance across the entire span. "What about the others?"_

"_Larkin was still alive as well when they bought his here," hissed Swift, wincing slightly as he spoke. "They hauled him off 20 minutes ago- god knows what's happened to him by now."_

"_Fuck," sighed Joseph, just as the voices of several VC filtered down from the cavern entrance. Looking around, the sergeant saw four VC fighters coming down the boardwalk- one of them was wearing a camouflage jacket confiscated from a dead American officer, medals and all._

"_Mang lên một trong những kế tiếp," he said, pointing at Joseph. Confined in the narrow space, there wasn't much he could do as the remaining VC opened up the top of the cage and dragged him out by his arms, threatening to dislocate his shoulder joints as they did. He didn't have the energy to fight back, but that didn't stop them landing a few punches into his ribs anyway._

"_Hãy xem một trong những điều này là sẵn sàng để chơi!" one of them laughed as they started to drag him away._

"_Joe! Stay strong!" yelled Swift as loud as he could manage, before some harsh language from the VC 'officer' and some gun-barrel threats silenced him. _

_They dragged the battered and bleeding sergeant back up through the cave network, past countless small side caves which had divided up into the various living quarters, mess rooms, and other amenities you would expect to find in a standard military barracks, alongside the VC fighters who had made this place their base of operations. He counted at least thirty of them before he just stopped counting- though more remained, pointing and jeering as he was hauled along- a pathetic, defeated figure._

"_Không chết được nêu ra, Yankee!" one of his escorts laughed as Joseph started to lag at one point. _

_At one point they dragged him past an open cavern where a trio of VC were doing nothing save for dumping dozens of corpses into a deep pit, joking and talking between one another as they did so. Joseph managed to get a good enough look to see a few American GI's being dumped- one of them was Hanson, his face locked into a look of extreme terror. Two VC picked him up by the feet and hands, tossing him in with the other bodies. Just like that- a human disposed of like trash._

_A few more minutes, they finally reached their intended destination. Joseph was hauled into a fairly spacious cave which had been used by the VC as a leisure room of sorts- several wooden tables and chairs were littered about, some of the soldiers playing cards or smoking together. Four more stood around a table in the very centre of the room, a lone lightbulb dangling overhead. They turned as they saw their fellows enter, smiles crossing their dirty faces. _

_Joseph was dropped into the seat closest to the door, where he was finally given a chance to get his bearings and check himself over for any injuries. As his escort and a few other VC turned and left the room sharply, Joseph noticed the figure slumped in the chair opposite him, and his eyes went wide in shock._

"_Duane?"_

_Duane Larkin was in a right state. Stripped down to his vest and pants, his right eye was badly swollen and his nose had been leaking a large amount of blood, his left arm cradled close to his body, broken. He was breathing slowly, but was still able to notice his sergeant sitting opposite him. "Sarge...?"_

"_Yeah, it's me Duane," replied Joseph, managing a smile._

"_Where's everyone else?" asked the sniper. Behind them, the VC had huddled around in a group, talking between one another in hushed voices. _

"_Swift's down in the prison, and I saw them dumping Hanson's body down below- but everyone else...they didn't make it." Joseph lowered his head as he spoke._

"_Fuck," hissed Larkin, "but we need to worry about ourselves now." He jerked his head back towards the VC behind him, and then into the far corner- where a few more American bodies lay slumped, killed with shots to the head. _

"_What do you mean?" asked Joseph, but he was about to get his answer as the VC suddenly broke their little huddle, and then moved around to surround their table. One of them was wearing an American-issue helmet with a number of paper slips tucked into the strap around the skull, and he was passing around what looked like more of the same slips. _

"_Time to play, Yankees," he then said in accented English, drawing a .357 revolver from the back of his pants. Joseph drew back slightly, but the VC just laughed. "No worry- it not loaded- yet."_

"_The hell?" asked Joseph, as the VC slotted a single bullet into the revolver's chamber, spun it with a roll of his fingers, and then snapped it shut before slapping it down on the table surface._

"_Chơi, chơi!" shouted a few of the other VC, starting to clamour around like excited children. The man with the paper in his helmet pushed the revolver in front of Larkin and repeated the same thing the others were saying, in a more forceful manner. It didn't take a genius to work out what game they wanted them to play._

"_No," said Joseph, shaking his head._

"_They're taking bets on which of us loses our head first," explained Larkin, jerking his head towards the pile of corpses in the corner, "just like those poor bastards." Joseph glanced over, and then saw the slips of paper being passed around were betting slips- who to put the money on for who got their head blown off first._

"_No," repeated Joseph, shaking his head as he looked around at the surrounding VC, "no- I don't fucking think so!"_

"_Play, Yankee!" the betting man said, his face starting to screw up into a mask of anger. "Play, or someone dies!" he then added, drawing a pistol from his hip holster and pushing it up against Larkin's head. The sniper didn't even flinch, probably because he'd already been subjected to crap like this before Joseph had been dragged up._

"_Boss...we don't do this, they'll kill us anyway," the thin man reasoned, "Jesus, they'll use any excuse to kill us."_

"_Fuck that," growled Joseph, trying to rise to his feet, but a pair of VC fighters wasted no time in pushing him back into his seat, along with another quick punch to the ribs. "You understand that?" he then yelled, looking at the betting man, "fuck you! You want to kill us, then do it yourself you piece of shit!" Judging by the look on the man's face, Joseph assumed that he had gone too far, but then the door behind him slammed open and another VC entered._

"_Chúng tôi đã có một số khác có thể chơi!" he shouted, and the betting man just smiled, then he looked straight at Joseph._

"_Okay. We just found you new playmate," he said. Then he lowered the pistol and shot Larkin straight through the head. The gunshot was a metaphorical slap to the face within the small cave._

_Joseph tried to jerk forwards out of his chair to wring the bustard's filthy neck, but the VC behind him kept him in his seat, even as the sniper's body slumped forwards across the table with a loud thud, blood and chunks of brain leaking out from where half his skull had been blown away. He looked furiously up at the betting man and then down at the body again, almost entranced by the way the light reflected off the swirling blood._

"_You fucking piece of shit!" he screamed, struggling to free himself, only for another VC to pistol-whip him across the back of the skull. The man who had just executed Larkin just laughed like it was all a big joke for them. _

_Joseph looked down at the body once more, nursing the back of his head with one hand. He had known this man since the first day he had enlisted, since their first patrol into the jungles, since the first time the sniper had saved him from a VC sniper, up until the battle for Hue City where he had covered Joseph on a suicide dash to destroy an NVA tank with a sticky bomb. And now he was dead and gone- just like the bodies downstairs, just like the rest of his squad- and just like he would be if he didn't do something fast._

"_Next!" demanded the betting man, as he casually nudged Larkin's body out of the chair with his boot, allowing one of his fellows to drag it away into the corner with the others. Then the door opened again and another familiar figure was dragged inside and around to stand in front of Joseph. _

"_Get your fucking hands off me!" yelled Nelson Swift, shoving the grasping arms away from him, only to be stopped by the AK-47's being aimed at him. Then he saw them dragging Larkin's body away into the corner, and he started to realise the implications within this small room._

"_Nelson, sit down," said Joseph quietly. The support gunner complied, mainly because he knew he would be shot otherwise and also because he could see how white Joseph Traver's face had become. "Don't...just don't Nelson. Otherwise they'll kill us- just like they did to Duane."_

"_So what the hell are we meant to do?" asked Swift, even as one of the VC gave the answer he needed, picking up the .357 and waving it about threateningly._

"_Play!" he shouted, slamming it down on the table and pushing it in front of Joseph. His fellows replied in kind, chanting in their own language as the bets started to be taken once again. The sergeant glanced down at the weapon, and slowly reached for it._

"_Sarge, what are you doing?" half-cried Swift, a couple of the VC jerking around at the sound of his raised voice._

"_Damn it, we don't play along and they'll kill us anyway!" yelled Joseph, lifting the revolver up a few more inches so the barrel was closer to his right temple. Then he lifted it further so the cold barrel was pushed right up against his skin. _

"_This is insane!" protested Swift, as the VC started to gather more closely around Joseph. _

"_Well we don't have a choice," sighed Joseph as he slowly cocked the hammer back, preparing the weapon to fire. The VC quietened down, half of them praying that the American's head got blown off, the other half wishing that his friend would lose his skull first. Joseph's pulse hammered inside his head like a pile driver, and he could feel the sweat sloughing off of his brow by the second._

_This was it. His finger curled inside of the trigger guard, all the sound seemed to fade out as he gently squeezed-_

_A dry click emanated from the revolver._

_With an audible gasp of relief, Joseph slammed the revolver down on the table and pushed is away from him. All around there was an equal amount of annoyed sighing and jeering from the assembled VC, some of them clamouring around the betting man to change the result they had put their money on. Swift just looked on aghast._

"_Shit man, you're crazy!" he exclaimed, but Joseph's only reply was to give him a harsh glare beneath his half-shut eyelids. His breathing had become sharp and short, owing to his very near-death experience. _

"_Next one," was all he said in hushed tones. _

"_What?" asked Swift, his brow furrowed._

"_Next one," repeated Joseph. "Next chamber." _

_Then the door behind him crashed open and another VC strode in- this one was much larger than any of the other men in the room, his massive gut just about concealed within his uniform, which seemed to have been taken from an NVA officer's wardrobe. Beady eyes scanned the room before they focused on the two Americans sat at the table, and then on the man holding this little betting ring._

"_Điều gì đang xảy ra ở đây?" he demanded, walking right up to the other man, towering over him by a few inches._

"_Chỉ cần một chút vui vẻ với các tù nhân," was the meek reply, but the fat man didn't look convinced. Instead, he withdrew a machete from his belt, twirled it about in his hand, and then bought it down in a savage chopping motion on the table. The heavy 'thunk' reverberated throughout the room, making Joseph and Swift flinch visibly. The support gunner closed his eyes and sighed in relief. _

"_Dù đây là, nhanh lên quái và có được người đàn ông của bạn đã sẵn sàng để di chuyển," the fat man snapped in response, before rattling off a few more hurried commands to some of the VC soldiers, and they followed him out of the room, looking disappointed to be out of the game. He left his machete embedded in the table, a few inches away from Joseph's fingers. _

_The sergeant quickly glanced around the room, making a head count of every threat he could see. Aside from the asshole acting as ringleader, there was one VC standing on either side of the table, arms folded across their chest, and one more standing just behind him at his right shoulder, another one leaning up against the door frame, lighting up a cigarette, and another one sat on some boxes directly across from Joseph, behind Swift._

_The revolver only had one bullet in it- even if they got lucky with the correct chamber- but there was also the machete planted into the table in front of him, and each of the VC carried their sidearm in a holster, their AK's left leaning up against a wooden crate. Easy pickings, assumed they acted quickly enough._

"_Next one," whispered Joseph, looking at Swift. "Next one..." The big man got the idea, just as the betting man leaned in close, close enough for them to smell his BO._

"_Play!" he barked. "Unless you want hole in head, too!" _

"_Allright!" snapped Swift, snatching up the revolver and lifting it up towards his head. The betting man backed away, and the other VC started to grin and snigger between one another like idiots. Joseph leaned back in his seat and relaxed, a very slight tilt of his head the only indication that they were about to do something very risky. The VC didn't pick up on it though. The betting man hovered to Joseph's right, a smile playing on his lips as he looked over the slips he still had._

_It was time to make their move. _

_As quickly as he could manage, Joseph leapt up to his feet, flipping his chair over as he did. At the same time, he snatched up the machete planted into the table and swung it wide- right through the neck of the slimy bastard beside him. The man let out a strangled gurgle as blood erupted from his nearly-severed neck, letting the momentum carry him forward onto the ground, grabbing the man's pistol from its holster._

_At the same time, Swift leapt up and grabbed onto the shoulder of the VC directly beside him, pushing the barrel of the .357 into the centre of his chest and pulling the trigger. Incredibly, there was a muffled blast and blood exploded out of the man's back. Then Swift snatched the pistol from its holster and turned, arm extended. He shot the first startled VC through the face, and then promptly turned to put two more shots into the one who had been sat on the crate. _

_From his position on the floor, Joseph turned and fired instinctively, putting a bullet through the throat of the VC standing at the door, and then finally spun around to open fire on the betting man. The bastard stumbled back as three shots ripped through his body, before Swift finished him with a shot to the side of the head. As his body crashed to the floor, Swift's other victim- crate man- slid to the floor._

_The entire scene had unfolded in less than seven seconds._

"_Fuck," cursed Joseph, struggling to his feet. "You okay?"_

"_I'll live," replied Swift, rolling his neck. "How did you know?"_

"_Know what?"_

"_That the bullet was in the next chamber?" Joseph was silent for a while before he offered his response._

"_Lucky guess," he said. But when he saw the look on Swift's face, he quickly corrected. "I've used a .357 a lot in the past. I could tell by the way it was weighted."_

_They didn't have much time to discuss their miraculous escape though when they heard shouting voices from somewhere close by, footsteps pounding along dirt passages. The two men shared a look, and then Swift crouched down beside the crate, snatching up a pair of AK-47's, one of which he tossed to Joseph. The sergeant snatched it out of mid-air and checked the magazine._

"_What now, sarge?" asked Swift warily. _

"_Did you see any other prisoners when they were bringing you up?" asked Joseph, snapping the magazine back into place in the AK._

"_No, I didn't," the support gunner replied, "they were already dead or taken elsewhere. No sign of those P.O.W's we were sent to find either."_

"_In that case, the plan's simple- kill every son of a bitch in this place and get the hell out."_

"_Sounds like a plan," smirked Swift, as the footsteps came right up outside of the door. "Guess we can start with these jokers." The door slammed open, and then there was a rattle of gunfire as a pair of AK-47's opened up. Screams quickly followed._

_It took the two men another hour and a half to get out of there, methodically clearing each passage, cave, and room they came to. In total they killed nearly fifty VC between them- and along the way they found what looked like a briefing room, complete with maps marking other VC outposts. Deciding that they would be of some use to command, they took them along. Aside from that, there was nothing else of use within those rabbit warrens, and they picked their way out into the sweltering jungles and back into the light. It took another two hours before they were picked up by a friendly patrol._

_But it would take years for Joseph Travers to recover from the mental scars left over._

* * *

><p>"So our original mission was a complete failure, but command still gave me a promotion to Lieutenant, command of the entire platoon," Joseph sighed, finishing his story. "Gave us charge of seeking out the other VC outposts we learned about down there. Another three months later, they offered me the Purple Heart after we took one of the larger towns back from the NVA, despite seventy percent losses."<p>

"And what did you say to that?" asked Dean.

"I told them where to shove it," replied Joseph, "and then I made it clear I was done with all of that crap and I went back home, away from all of the madness. And despite everything that had happened, a lot of people called me a murderer, a baby killer- and worse."

"Jesus," whispered Dean. "What about Swift?" Joseph shrugged before he continued.

"He left about the same time I did- last I heard he'd been drinking himself half to death down in Georgia somewhere. Ended up being committed by his family into a home."

"Man."

"You could say that," sighed Joseph glibly. "I guess that he wasn't able to deal with what happened that day as well as I could. There was one good thing that came out of that drama..."

"Yeah? What was that?" asked Dean.

"Well it was after I got back that I met your mother," replied Joseph with a wistful smile, looking up to where Marie was sitting with Lisa, speaking with Deputy Cohen. "And the rest is history...but what happened today nearly destroyed everything we've built up on this farm."

Dean looked around. His dad was right- if the entire family had been home when Fake Perry had launched his attack; there was a good chance they would have all been killed then and there. Collateral damage at its most extreme, only to kill one man whose only crime was to survive a living nightmare and realise the true evil of the ones behind it all. Umbrella had to pay for this- they had to pay for everything.

"So what happens now?"

"What?" asked Dean, broken out of his reverie by his father's question.

"What happens now?" Joseph repeated. "Those bastards have tried to kill you twice now, and they nearly destroyed our home doing it. So what happens now?" Dean turned away to look at the scrum of people surrounding the family home.

"Simple- I'll make sure the bastards can't hurt anyone else."

Another hour later, the Travers clan had finally relocated to the Motor Inn Motel, just on the other side of Riverview, where they would be staying until the damage at the farm could be fixed and the mess from Fake Perry cleared up. All four of them sat around the tiny coffee table which had been shifted into the middle of the room, the room's phone set on the table, and nothing else. Their cases and hold-alls lay about, still waiting to be unpacked. It seemed like an age they had just been sitting there.

"So this is it, then?" asked Lisa, as her brother held up a promotion card for the Red Door Hotel in downtown Richmond, a phone number scrawled on the back in black ink.

"Yeah, this is it," nodded Dean. "You guys still okay with me doing this?"

"Dean, this is your decision," his mother reasoned. Whatever you decide to do, we'll support you 100%."

"That's right," agreed Joseph, and Lisa added one of her smiles to the agreements. It was a shame that her swollen face dulled the impact of the gesture.

Dean nodded slowly and looked down at the card, and then to the phone. Finally, he reached out and picked up the receiver, dialling the number slowly and deliberately. Then he lifted it up to his ear and listened to the rings on the other end. It sounded four, five, six times, and for a moment Dean assumed that no-one was going to answer him. And then suddenly there was a click as the other end picked up, and he could hear some background noise, and the sound of a lamp being knocked over, followed by someone groaning sleepily.

"Damn it!" cursed a male voice.

"Chris?" inquired Dean, "Chris, it's me- Dean."

"Oh...hey Dean," responded Chris Redfield, a little more background noise following his words. "Sorry, you woke me up there."

"I can gather," Dean responded with a slight smile. "Listen, Chris?"

"What is it?"

"I've changed my mind- I want in."

**A/N: And so Dean signs himself up for the fight against Umbrella. I mean, who saw that coming right? *sarcasm* But seriously, if he hadn't changed his mind it would have been a pretty boring fanfic for the next 15+ chapters...**

**Anyways, sorry for the late updates from my end recently, but I've just finished off my college course, and I'm also started a little Beta Reading for one of the other writers on this site, so my time has been a little limited of late. But lookout for the next update for this and Tales from the Necropolis coming within the next couple of moths...I hope. *trollface***

**Also I knew I said earlier that I'd try and keep the chapters shorter on this story, but that plan clearly failed, looking at the word count...I'll make more of an effort for the future updates, don't worry. Or maybe you like the longer chapters? Let me know either way.**

**Anyways, you all know the deal- R & R please, cause I love any feedback you can throw at me.**


	8. Chapter 8: How to Make Friends

Chapter 8: How to Make Friends

**July 6****th**** 1036 hours**

'_It was only after I said yes to that offer that I started to realise just how much damage that Umbrella's greed had caused- not just to the survivors of Raccoon City, but to hundreds, perhaps even thousands more people round the world. And some of them would become some of my most loyal allies in the future.'_

A few days after Dean's battle against the fake Perry Arnold at the Travers farmhouse, they had finally managed to patch up the damage left during the struggle and got business back to the usual standard. But it was also the day that Dean was leaving home. Chris Redfield stood waiting by the same rental car he and Jill had pulled up in the week beforehand, watching as the prodigal son made his goodbyes to his family, standing in a line on the porch.

"Well...guess this is goodbye again," said Dean with a nervous chuckle as he stood in front of his parents. "With any luck, I won't be gone for five years this time."

"I'm sure you won't," chuckled Marie in response, patting a hand on his shoulder. "I know you won't, in fact."

"Yeah, what your mom said," agreed Joseph.

"Soon as I get the chance to I'll give you all a call and let you know what's happening," Dean responded. "I know they want their pound of flesh from me, but I won't be a prisoner either," he then added, remembering the telephone conversation with Chris the other night. The former S.T.A.R.S officer had made it clear that they didn't want Dean to feel as though he was committing himself to something that would cut him off from the rest of society.

"I know you will," nodded Joseph, though the smile that followed that statement didn't look as eager as his optimism suggested. "You...know I'm not that good with these kinds of things."

"I know dad, I know," nodded Dean in a playful manner. "I'm not either...but I appreciate your understanding. Both of you."

"Like I said son, we will support you 100%," his mother smiled. "But you just have to promise that you'll come home in one piece and tell us all about your war stories."

"I promise," he agreed, leaning in to embrace each parent in turn, giving his father a friendly pat on the shoulder as well. "Doubt they'll be as interesting as yours or grandpa's, though."

"I'm sure they'll be just as good," chuckled Joseph. Their prior conversation- about Joseph's hellish experiences in that cave system in Vietnam after a failed rescue mission- had remained resolutely between them, and just as well- last thing Marie needed was anymore reason to stress after their home had been violated so roughly.

That said and done, Dean turned his attentions towards his sister, who had been curiously quiet all day- every since he had announced when he was leaving to begin with. But as soon as he was standing in front of her, she suddenly jumped forwards and wrapped her arms around his waist to the extent that he nearly stumbled back onto his ass. His ribs- still somewhat tender from his battle with Fake Perry- flared up with pain briefly.

"Hey, hey, easy girl!" he laughed as she relented her hold. "It'll be alright."

"I know it will," she replied, "but still...I'm worried they'll try something again, when you're away."

"Hey, it's me they're after, not you guys," he responded quietly. "Long as I'm not here around the house, then none of you have anything to worry about. And besides, Sheriff Harper's calling in a couple of favours, make sure we get some additional bodies to watch over the house." She smiled in response, head lowered. Her bruise was still fairly visible though- the sore red having given way to an angry purple.

"I'm sorry that I have to go," he then added, looking at his entire family. "Just like the last time. But back then I did it because I was a stubborn idiot who ran away so I didn't have to face up to what you wanted. But not this time- I know this is what I have to do."

"We know, Dean," his father responded. "And we'll be waiting for when you get back- all of us."

Nothing more needed to be said with that. And so Dean stepped forwards and embraced his entire family in a group hug which lingered for a few seconds, before he became aware that Chris had been waiting at the car for nearly five minutes now. The tapping of his foot indicated that he was starting to lose patience.

"Well, shouldn't keep him waiting any longer," Dean announced sheepishly, stopping to pick up his hold-all. "Keep safe." And with that, he turned and descended the porch steps to approach his chauffeur.

"Done?" asked Chris with a quick glance at his wristwatch.

"Sorry, I just had to say my goodbyes," replied Dean, tossing his hold-all into the car's trunk.

"I know, don't worry," his companion replied, preparing to ease himself in the driver's seat just as he heard the crunch of car tyres approaching, and saw a police SUV pulling in. "Looks like news travels fast," he observed, as a tall man in a wide-brimmed hat stepped out.

"Small town," answered Dean as Sheriff Nelson Harper approached, removing his hat as he did so.

"Oh I'm sorry, did you think you could just run off without saying goodbye?" inquired the sheriff, arms folded across his chest, an official police file held in his other hand.

"Sorry Chief," replied Dean guiltily, "but things happened pretty fast. I never got the chance to come and see you; dad had me helping to get the house fixed up."

"I'll let you off this time then," the sheriff replied, "but before you go riding off into the sunset, I thought you'd like to look at this," he continued, holding out the police file towards Dean.

"What's this?" the farmer's son asked, but he got his answer when he opened the file and saw the picture inside. It was of a particularly mean-looking man in his late-twenties, his close-cropped hair bleached blonde and his blue eyes shining with a malicious intelligence. The personal information identified him as David Bachmayer, a resident of South Africa. And then there was his rap sheet- almost as long as Dean's own arm.

"What's this guy got to do with anything?" Dean asked, flicking on and on through police reports of assaults, murders, multiple homicides, arson and more.

"Well that is the guy who shot up your home a few days ago," responded Harper, rocking on his feet.

"Chief, this guy looks nothing like that bastard," Dean replied.

"No he doesn't- but the coroner at Charlottesville found evidence of cosmetic work," Harper counter, "a _lot _of cosmetic work. Restructured cheekbones, nose re-allingment, implants- the full works. See, this David Bachmayer was the most notorious hitman in South Africa at one point- and he is on the shit list of NATO and at least three other peace-keeping organisations throughout the world. But he disappeared back in 1999 after he was linked to the murder of a local politician."

"-and he just happens to wind up on our police force," Dean finished, snapping the file shut. "Fuck- this guy was a real sweetheart. He must have started working for Umbrella around the same time then."

"And they gave him the job of watching you- in theory of course," Harper concluded. "What a tangled web these events are weaving."

"I know," Dean sighed, passing the file back. "But that's why I'm doing this- I'm going to make sure they never hurt anyone else again. It's better than wallowing in my sorrow and the past all the time too." Nelson Harper nodded slowly in agreement.

"Well I won't argue with you on that Dean," he stated, "and I won't try to stop you either. We all do what we have to do."

"And I need to do this."

"I respect that," the sheriff nodded. "We'll manage the fort until you get back."

The sudden clearing of someone's throat caught their attention, and they both glanced back at Chris Redfield, still standing by the car door, looking at his watch in a rather obvious manner.

"Sorry, I need to go now," Dean sighed, turning back. "I'll be back soon, hopefully."

"Stay safe Dean," the sheriff responded, extending his arm out. After a pause, Dean reached his own arm out and shook it firmly. "We'll look after your folks while you're away."

And that was that. With a hurried apology to Chris, Dean finally got into the car and pulled his seatbelt on. Chris did the same and then fired up the engine, backing the car around to give them a clear drive off of the farm estate. Just before they headed down the main path, Dean gave one last look towards the house, towards his family lined up along the porch, along with Sheriff Harper. They all waved in a gesture that he returned, even as the car turned fully and began to trundle away down the main path towards the road.

"Bye again," he whispered as the house went out of view behind the trees.

"Don't worry." Dean turned towards Chris in the driver's seat. "You'll see them again- don't worry. One thing that you can rely on is your family waiting to see you again."

"Thinking about your sister?" Dean inquired. A slight tilt of Chris's chin was the only reply that Dean needed.

"I didn't tell her that I was going to Europe three years back because I didn't want her to get involved in what I was doing," Chris explained, "and as a result she ended up walking right into Raccoon City to try and find me. And then she ended up on Rockfort as well..."

"I'm sure you'll see her again soon," he reasoned.

"I know, I know," smiled Chris. "But I know she'd easily travel half the world to find me again," he continued, just as they reached the turn-off for the main road. "So...you good to go now?"

Dean was quiet for a few moments before a thought occurred to him. "Hold on, take me into Richmond. There's one more person I need to see."

* * *

><p>"Hello?"<p>

Doctor Monroe's office was curiously empty- even the ever-present secretary was nowhere to be seen. He wondered if he had missed the good doctor on a day off, but since the front door was unlocked, he figured that wasn't the case, and also briefly wondered if Umbrella assassins had come after her too.

_Don't be stupid and paranoid, _he chastised himself. He stepped past the reception desk and up to the door into the doctor's office proper. His hand hovered over the doorknob for a few moments, and then he reached out and took it, turning and stepping though into the office. "I'm sorry for"-

"Angie! I told you not to let anyone in!" cried an angry voice, and Dean nearly leapt out of his skin as Erica Monroe turned towards him, but her angry features immediately softened when she saw who her visitor was. "Dean! I-I-I'm sorry, I didn't realise it was..."

"I'm sorry, did I interrupt...?" he started to ask, but his voice trailed off when he saw that the doctor's personal laptop was opened, and displayed on the screen as what looked like a site for renting dresses. Very expensive-looking dresses. "You getting married?"

"No, bridesmaid," the doctor replied, looking quite flustered. After a few moments, she quickly added- "My best friend is getting married in the next few days and she asked me to be her chief bridesmaid yesterday. I mean, she just ambushed me out of nowhere! What was I supposed to say? Turn her down?"

"I...guess not," Dean responded, feeling as though he'd been dropped into some kind of comedy movie. "Look, I'm sorry that I just dropped in like this, but it looked like your secretary had gone out for something...so I just thought I'd stop by to tell you I won't be coming back next week. Or the weeks after for that matter."

"Oh," the doctor replied, sounding a little disappointed. "I'm sorry to hear that, Dean. I'll have Angela clear my appointments when she gets back. I'm sorry that I wasn't able to help you in the end"-

"It's nothing to do with you, Doctor," Dean responded, holding his hands up. "I just realised there was another way for me to get myself over this. You helped me of course, but you were right- I had to find the cure myself. And...I haven't exactly been the easiest patient either."

"I see," she nodded. "Well, I am happy to hear that as well, Dean. I'm glad that I could have helped you at least a little bit. It justifies the time on both sides."

"Oh, you did help me, don't worry," Dean quickly added. "But I have to go now- some people I used to know are waiting for me, and I don't want to let them down."

"Well then don't let me keep you too long," smiled Erica Monroe. Dean noticed she was rather pretty when she smiled. "Just...whatever happens, promise me that you'll take care of yourself, and don't get yourself into anymore trouble."

"I'll...make more of an effort," Dean said sheepishly. "But considering how things have been going, I can't make any promises."

"I'm sure you'll manage," the doctor responded. "Take care."

"Thanks."

And with that- and a somewhat awkward silence which hung in the air for a few beats, Dean turned and walked out of the doctor's office, out of the building, and out of the doctor's life for good. Despite the good nature of his departure, he was sure that he wouldn't be seeing her again. It was nigh time to draw a line under this part of his life for good.

Erica Monroe sighed once he was gone. "Shame...I wouldn't have minded getting inside your head a little more, Dean. The things you've seen..."

* * *

><p>As it turned out, they did have a long drive ahead of them. A <em>very <em>long drive. The place they were heading for was out at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains upstate, a good distance away from any form of modern civilisation. Chris had explained to Dean that even though the group they were with weren't officially recognised yet, the nature of their work meant that some people weren't too keen on them being around- though to Dean it seemed a little excessive. It didn't make him feel any better about leaving his family behind.

It was starting to get dark as the car made its way along yet another highway. The head-lamps lighted the road in front of them, while the occasional car passed by them either way, the strains of some classic rock blaring away on the radio. Scrunched up in the passenger seat, legs tucked in, Dean watched Chris as he sang along- or at the very least, _tried _to. After listening to murder a few more bars of The Eagles, he finally spoke up.

"Chris?" he asked. "Don't take this the wrong way, but if I was ever in a karaoke sing off I'd hate to have you on my side." Chris got the message and flicked the radio off with a roll of the eyes.

"You're not the first one to say that, funnily enough," Chris muttered as he looked away. Dean just sniggered.

"Sorry- nothing personal," Dean said in a reassuring manner.

"I know," Chris responded, "besides- I've been called worse in my life. Like a murderer."

"...after what happened to the other S.T.A.R.S?" inquired Dean. Chris sighed and screwed his eyes up tight, but he opened them quickly enough so that he could keep an eye on the road.

"Yeah- that exactly." There was another terse silence, before Dean spoke up once again.

"You want to talk about it?"

"No- no, not particularly," Chris responded, his reply a little short that time. Dean turned away as well, picking up on the fact that the atmosphere in the car interior had dropped a few Fahrenheit. He all too vividly remembered how Chris had been when he and Jill had visited the last time, when he had bought up how the nightmares of the past continued to haunt him.

"Can I just say one thing then?" Dean ventured, and when Chris didn't voice any concerns, he continued. "After...after everything that happened, I just want you to know that I never doubted you or the others. I knew that you could never kill the other S.T.A.R.S. You were all far too close for that. Fuck what the other officers said- I knew you guys were better than that." There was another period of silence, and for a moment Dean was convinced that Chris wouldn't offer any response- again. He glanced out of the window instead.

"After that night"-

Dean swivelled his head around.

"-that night changed everything for me. I mean before that, with the Air Force- they got rid of me just because I wasn't willing to be a good boy and say 'yes sir' to everything. And then with the S.T.A.R.S- even there I felt as though I was still drifting through life, not knowing what to do. Like I was only doing it to make ends meet. But after what happened in those woods, in that mansion- I knew then and there that everything that came beforehand was just an act.

"But now I know what I have to do- I have to make sure Umbrella pays for everything they've done, not just to Raccoon City. They have to answer for all their crimes, for everyone they've killed just to line their pockets."

"I know," nodded Dean, "I know that too- beforehand I thought that just living a normal life would be enough to forget...but not after everything that's happened this week. Umbrella have a target painted on my back, and if I don't do something about it, then they'll never leave me be. And what if my family gets caught in the crossfire? I can't let that happen, no way."

"Amen to that," Chris agreed. "I know for certain they've got bounties on mine and Jill's heads. More than once some punk with a gun has tried to claim it. More than once we didn't have a choice." Dean knew full well what Chris was referring to. That binary choice of whether to pull the trigger or not.

"I understand," he explained. "In that warehouse, I knew they would kill me if I didn't shoot back. But that didn't make me feel any better at the end of it all. It was the same when that bastard came to my home and tired to kill me in front of my sister. I've got no regrets from that either, I tell you."

That statement left a heavy tang in the air, one which endured for the remainder of their trip. Both men were too lost in their own thoughts and memories to comment further- and frankly, some things were best left unsaid.

Another half hour later, Chris turned off of the highway and guided the car down a smaller road through the midst of a large forest, and then after a few more miles he turned off onto a forest road which was no more than a dirt track through the trees. The car's headlamps only illuminated about twenty feet in front of them, and Dean could discern the reflection of light from pairs of eyes all around them as the local wildlife came out.

"Reminds me of that damned night," Chris spoke up suddenly. "Of course, it was foggy back then- and we had those damned devil dogs snapping at our heels..." His voice trailed off, only too vividly reminded of watching a pack of those rabid animals tearing Joseph Frost limb from limb.

"I can imagine," responded Dean quietly, as he was vaguely aware of the outline of a deer making its way through the undergrowth.

Another ten minutes later, Dean noticed a few lights shining through the darkness, and he could discern the outline of a two-story building somewhere ahead. The car passed through a pair of rusted iron gates that had been left wide open, and soon came upon a barrier which was blocking the road, alongside a security hut with a single guard inside, dressed in black.

"Oh hey, Chris," he answered with a smile as they pulled up to the barrier and rolled down the driver's side window. "Looks like you made it, finally."

"Yeah, we had a few quick stops before we could leave," Chris explained. "Bought the new guy here with me."

"I see," the guard observed, leaning in close. "So you're Dean Travers, huh? Pleasure to meet you."

"Yeah, likewise," smiled Dean in response, raising his eyebrows.

"Head on through," the guard then added, stepping back and hitting a switch inside of the hut, lifting the barrier up. With a quick wave, Chris drove on through, right up to the front of the main building. Dean could see the external lights up close now, along with the blinds that were drawn in each and every window. The building itself was fairly non-descript, built from crumbling red brick and featuring a plain, flat roof. It reminded Dean of something he would have seen on countless street corners in Raccoon City.

The faded, ramshackle sign that stood outside was more than enough to raise eyebrows though. "'Green Trees Mental Hospital'?" he asked incredulously, glancing at Chris. "...really?"

"Hey, it was the one place we could get without anyone asking any questions," reasoned Chris, opening his door. "The alternative for this place would be demolition. Besides, considering Umbrella's track record with secret facilities, it seemed appropriate somehow." With a roll of his eyes, Dean got out of his own side and retrieved his bag from the car's trunk. Then he followed Chris up the front steps into the building proper.

Inside, it was clear that the place had seen some serious renovating. The walls had been freshly painted and modern light fittings were in place along the ceiling, the floors replaced with fresh linoleum. A reception desk to their immediate right was unoccupied though- there wasn't even a telephone or a computer terminal to indicate anyone used it for its intended purpose. Dean glanced to and fro, before Chris tapped him on the shoulder and edged his head down one of the corridors.

"Here, this way- I'll show you to your room."

Chris lead the way down the passage, before turning a corner at the end and ascending a set of carpeted stairs to the second floor. They passed plenty of doors along the way, all of them closed. "So, how many more people do you have down here?" asked Dean curiously.

"About twenty or so," answered Chris, "though a few of them are coming and going all the time. Like I said, we're not an official body, so we're pretty flexible in how often some people come in." As they entered the second floor passage, another person passed by- an average-looking man about Dean's age with blonde hair and wearing jeans and a t-shirt. He was reading some kind of report by the looks of it, so he didn't even notice Dean and Chris as they passed.

"Here," said Chris, stopping in front of a door bearing the number '203'. "This'll be your digs- it's not much, but it should be comfortable enough. We've got a canteen down on the bottom floor and a break room if you want to stretch your legs- just head down and head straight on from the main doors. You can't miss them."

"Thanks Chris," nodded Dean with genuine sincerity. "Frankly, think I'll just hit the sack for now."

"I understand," said Chris with a crooked grin. "It's been a long day. Anyway, I've got a few more things to take care of before I retire for the night as well. I'll see you in the morning, and I'll introduce you to a few people."

"Alright," answered Dean, shaking his companion's hand. "See you tomorrow." And with that, Chris Redfield turned and tromped away down the passage and out of sight.

Dean stepped through the unlocked door and flicked the light switch on. The room itself was plain enough, with white walls and a ceiling, and a stark carpet which matched the ones throughout the entire building. There was a single bed, a basic wardrobe, and a dresser unit with a TV set placed on top. The basic needs for anyone staying a few nights. Dean tossed his bag down at the foot of his bed and sat himself down on the soft mattress, kicking his shoes off as he did.

He sighed and rubbed his face. After that long drive, part of him wanted to call his family to let them know he had arrived safe, the rest of him just wanted to sleep there and then. And that was the part of him which won the internal argument, as he swung his legs over and lay on his back, letting his eyes close as he drifted off from the land of the living.

* * *

><p><em>Here he was once more, in his dreams. Standing in a passageway not dissimilar to the ones he had walked through to get this far to begin with, an oppressive silence crushing in from all around. But something was different this time- for one, his anxiety wasn't sky high- he was actually quite calm and at ease as he walked the passage, looking back and forth as though he were checking the place out for a future move. He didn't feel threatened or in danger at all.<em>

"_Come on, I know you're in here somewhere," he said casually. "Just get it over with."_

_As if to answer him, one of the doors ahead of him smashed open and a number of zombies came staggering out, homing in on his location quickly. As ever, they growled and retched like wild animals, leaving bloody prints behind them as they came. Soon, the first one in the undead line reached him, and extended its arms forwards, rotten breath washing over his face._

_But he was the picture of calm, even with the undead monster closing in, its teeth making a beeline towards his unprotected neck. Then Dean extended his hand and flicked the zombie in the middle of the forehead with his index finger. It let out a confused growl and reeled back. _

"_See?" he said, "you're nothing to me. Leave me alone." _

_As if a switch had been flicked, the zombies in front of him vanished- turning to dust and being swept away as though on a light breeze, the grey dust rolling down the corridor away from him. He glanced down and saw some had gathered on his shoe. With a smirk, he shook it slightly, and the grey was gone, and he started to walk on._

"_What the hell are you doing?!"_

_He turned at the sound of his own voice to see his Doppelganger, as he fully expected. But this time, the cocky grin was gone, instead replaced with a look of extreme anxiety. "This...this isn't how things were supposed to happen! I mean, you? Moving on? Don't make me laugh! Don't be such a damned spoilsport."_

"_I'm sorry, am I making things uncomfortable for you?" replied Dean sarcastically._

"_Don't!" the Doppelganger snapped, blind rage seeping out of him. "Don't you dare talk to me like that, you piece of"-_

"_You know what?" interrupted Dean, "I've got no more time for you, so just leave me alone," he continued, turning to leave._

"_Wait!" pleaded the Doppelganger, reaching for him with an outstretched hand, before his face twisted into fury once again. "Don't you dare walk away from me, you fucking bastard!"_

"_And why not?" asked Dean as he turned on his heel. _

"_Because you and I are the same!" the Doppelganger screamed frantically. "You created me! I appeared in your demented little brain because you needed me! You needed someone to show you just how weak, pathetic and hopeless you were! You think this little crusade will change any of that?!"_

_The Doppelganger finally shut up when Dean stepped right up to him and grabbed both hands tightly onto the collar of his shirt. The delusion let out a strangled gurgle instead as he was then subsequently pushed up against the wall. _

"_No, I'm not weak, pathetic and hopeless," Dean answered calmly. "I realise that now. I should have done something a lot earlier than wallowing in self-pity and letting delusions like you rule my life. But I see now"-_

_He glanced to the side, before throwing open one of the doors. Inside all there could be seen was an overwhelming abyss of inky blackness. He locked eyes with his Doppelganger once more. "-I know what I need to do now. So that means I don't need you anymore."_

_And with that, he manhandled the delusion around and shoved him out into the darkness boldly, before he slammed the door shut and slid in the numerous deadbolts and the chain which had appeared on his side. With that done, he casually turned around and walked away down the passage, listening to the hammering which came from behind the door and the desperate pleas. _

"_No, you can't do this to me!" the Doppelganger wailed. "Don't you fucking walk away from me! You can't just shut me away and pretend I don't exist! I'll find a way out! Just you wait and see! I'll find a way out!"_

_As Dean rounded a corner, he heard the creaking of wood, and saw the door at the far end of the corridor open by itself. He couldn't see anything inside, just an intensely bright light. He raised a hand to cover his eyes as he approached gingerly, before inching the door open and stepping inside without hesitation._

_He blinked when the light cleared and he saw where he was standing. It was a fairly standard apartment, complete with living room, doors into the bathroom and bedroom, and a kitchen area complete with a countertop and several cupboards. It was in a state of disarray- several cardboard takeaway cartons were lining the kitchen counter, along with a few empty beer cans and unwashed plates. A smile crossed his face, before a voice called out from the far side._

"_Come on, it's about damn time you made it here. This beer won't drink itself."_

_A wider smile crossed his face as he picked his way through the apartment's bomb-site detritus, stepping through the glass doors onto the balcony. In front of him was a sprawling industrial town, all brick apartment blocks and towers, with a few larger skyscrapers and more modern buildings in the centre of the town, the sounds of countless cars and people reaching his ears._

_Raccoon City- before the T-Virus outbreak destroyed it._

"_Here," said Ben Campbell from beside him, reclining back in a chair and holding out a bottle of beer. "I've had this damn thing on ice for far too long."_

"_Sorry," answered Dean as he took the bottle and eased himself into the other seat beside him, popping off the cap with a quick flick of the bottle-opener. "I had to take care of some stupid asshole."_

"_Yeah, I know- glad you shut that prick up," chuckled Ben. "But I don't think that's all you had on your plate," he continued, supping from his own bottle, almost as though things were still the way they used to be, years ago. "Am I right?"_

"_Yeah, you're right, as always," answered Dean. "I just had to figure out what to do next. And now I know what that is."_

"_And what's that?" asked Ben with a raised eyebrow. "Just out of curiosity."_

"_I have to act," Dean explained, "instead of just sitting around and wallowing in misery. I need to get out there and make Umbrella pay for everything they've done- for what they did to you, and the people of Raccoon City. I need to make sure they don't harm anyone else."_

"_That's very noble of you," Ben nodded. "Just as long as you don't lose sight of who you really are, Dean."_

"_What's that supposed to mean?" asked Dean, after taking another swig from his bottle, "you pulling your wise and noble act on me?"_

"_I'll leave you to figure that out yourself," was all Ben offered in reply. "And one more thing- why haven't you been to visit me yet?"_

"_What do you mean?" asked Dean. "I'm seeing you now, aren't I?"_

"_No, I mean in reality- why haven't you been to my grave yet?" asked Ben. There was a long silence before Dean offered his response. "It's been three years- three years, and you haven't once been to my grave."_

"_Well that's simple- because I was guilty...about when you died"-_

"_Oh come on, bud," scoffed Ben, setting his bottle down and turning to face Dean, "I thought you would have realised it by now. What happened wasn't your fault. I made a decision to save you then, and I've had to live with that decision...in a manner of speaking. You've got nothing to be guilty about."_

"_I know," Dean sighed. "I know that now. But I'm going to do something, rather than just wallowing in that grief. Actions speak louder than words after all."_

"_That's the spirit," laughed Ben, "there was always more to you than just sitting around with your thumb up your ass."_

"_Gee, thanks for the mental image," Dean retorted, almost as though the two of them were having one of their famous 'bitch fights', as Travis put it. _

_Then the light started to fade away, almost as though an eclipse was blotting out the sun. Dean looked out over the vista of Raccoon City, and saw that the town itself actually seemed to be billowing away on the wind, much like the zombies from beforehand had done. The blocks and buildings vanished one by one, gradually creeping towards their little balcony._

"_What's going on?" asked Dean. _

"_It's time for you to go back," Ben responded, standing up. "But don't worry; you know where to find me again- both out there and in here." He tapped the side of his head with an index finger on the world 'here'._

"_Yeah, I do," smiled Dean as he rose to his feet as well. "Soon as this crap is over, I'll come and see you." Ben laughed loudly, and then let it level out into some quiet chuckling._

"_I'll hold you to that, mind."_

"_I'd expect no less," replied Dean, just as the vanishing effect reached the building they were on, and then everything had been plunged into blackness once again._

* * *

><p>"Yo, wake up."<p>

Dean groaned and fluttered his eyes open, stretching his arms and legs out as long as he could manage. That really was the best night's sleep he had had in a very long time. He glanced sideways at the digital clock on the side counter, and saw that the timer was flashing on 08:58 in green letters.

"Oh man," he sighed, sitting up on the bed.

"Heard that you got in late the other night with Chris," added the voice which had woken him. "But he sent me to come and get you, so you can't have longer I'm afraid."

"And you are...?" asked Dean, his voice trailing off.

His visitor was sat on the chair beside the dresser unit, elbows propped on his knees. He was young- perhaps a few years younger than Dean, his hair raven black and his eyes deep brown behind a pair of black-framed spectacles that he nudged up onto the bridge of his nose every few seconds. He was wearing a plain blue t-shirt and jeans, the brand new white sneakers providing a stark contrast to the rest of his get-up. He was skinnier than Dean was, with little evidence of muscle on his bare arms.

"Oh, Spencer Levinson," he said finally, standing up and walking over to shake Dean's hands. "I got here a few days ago, so I'm officially part of the anti-Umbrella crusade, you could say," he continued, with a nervous chuckle.

"I see," said Dean, rising to his feet and stretching his arms once more. "How old are you, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Turned 23 last week," Spencer replied. "Don't let that fool you though- I graduated from MIT with a PhD last year, so I've got at least one thing to offer these guys- and it's not brawn, I can tell you as much."

"Oh, I see," nodded Dean. "Nerd. I figured."

"What's that supposed to mean?!" asked Spencer, sounding offended. "Anyways, we could sit here and discuss my life history, but a few people need you downstairs- now."

"Okay, I get the idea," responded Dean, holding his hands up in defeat, "just give me a few moments to get ready," he added, as he reached for his bag and pulled out some fresh clothes, stumbling into the en suite to get himself changed. Spencer leaned back in his seat.

"Long as you don't take forever on your hair," he stated loudly.

"I heard that," Dean called out, shutting the door.

A few minutes later, Spencer lead Dean down one of the main corridors on the first floor, turning off around the corner that Dean hadn't had much of a chance to investigate on his arrival the previous night. A few more people passed them by here and there, most of them giving Dean a quick glance as he passed by- sizing him up, probably.

"They put a hell of a lot of work into expanding this place," Spencer explained as he lead the way into a corridor where the walls were painted a different colour and the brickwork and other construction looked very recent, indicating the new extensions to the original building. "We had to- otherwise there wouldn't have been enough space for everything we needed here."

"And what did you need here?" Dean asked.

"First off- a canteen," Spencer answered, opening a set of double doors to expose a spacious dining canteen, where several people sat around at a number of large square tables, eating. Then the bespectacled man closed the door and led the short walk down to a second set of double doors. He opened one of them to reveal a well-stocked gymnasium that looked at least twice the size of the one at the Riverview High School where Dean would often train at after class. It even featured its own boxing ring where a pair of men in practice gear sparred.

"Wow," Dean observed as the door closed once more, and Spencer lead the way further and further on down the passage. "They really pulled out all of the stops."

"Well you ain't seen nothing yet," Spencer responded with a smile, as he opened the next set of doors- and they were immediately assailed by the cracks of gunfire, ranging from the light barks of handguns up to the chatter of assault rifles and submachine guns being fired. Spencer shut the doors quickly before the noise became too great.

"And in here," Dean's tour guide finished with a slight flourish as he stood before the last door in the passage, "is the real brains of the entire operation so to speak- where every stream of data we collect in this country against Umbrella flows to and from." With that, he threw the doors open and indicated for Dean to step inside, letting the former cop's reaction do all the talking.

"Oh man..."

The interior of this final room seemed to resemble something out of one of those modern spy movies- the far wall was just a bank of video monitors, some displaying what looked to be satellite images of various places around the globe, while others just reeled off streams of information on blue or black screens, a quartet of technicians sat before them, fingers flying across the keyboard with practiced ease. Elsewhere, more technicians tended to half a dozen supercomputers- tall black monoliths dotted with flashing lights of various colours and bundles of thick cables running from their backs to and from a series of locations. And in the very centre of the room was a large circular table where three figures were stood around, talking between one another in low voices. Dean recognised one of them as Chris Redfield in his old air force jacket, but he didn't recognise the other two.

Chris glanced up- as though he felt the eyes on him- and then made his way over when he saw who had just arrived. "Hey, good to see you up and about. You get much sleep during the night?"

"Enough," Dean responded, before indicating towards Spencer beside him. "Spencer here was just showing me around the place."

"Oh, it was nothing," Spencer responded with a slight chuckle.

"Hey don't sell yourself too low," Chris responded cheerily. "You gotta make friends where you can, Spence." Dean noticed Spencer's face twist itself up at the mention of the shortened version of his name. "Okay, thanks a lot. You go on, get yourself away- I know you got a lot of work to do before the big day."

"Yeah, sure. Thanks," Spencer responded, turning to face Dean. "Was nice to meet you, Dean. Hope to see you around," he complimented, shaking Dean's hand once again, and then he was gone.

"So..." Dean said, turning to Chris, "Spencer was saying that you had some people you wanted me to meet."

"Of course," replied Chris, using a subtle nudge of his chin to prompt Dean into following him back towards the centre of the room. "These two certainly helped us out a lot ever since we first started this group. We wouldn't have been able to make it this far without their help."

Chris lead the short walk back towards the two other people- one of them was about Dean's age with blonde spiky hair and green eyes, while the other was a middle-aged man with black hair. He glanced up as Dean approached, and then began to smile, standing up to face him directly. Dean slowed down when he finally realised who it was.

"Holy crap- Lieutenant Fletcher?!"

Gordon Fletcher just laughed as he shook Dean's hand. "No, I'm not a Lieutenant anymore- I'm just another soldier helping these guys fight the good fight."

Three years ago- when they had first met- Gordon Fletcher had been a Lieutenant within the Raccoon County garrison forces, the military units tasked with the quarantine of the doomed Raccoon City. Dean didn't know a lot about the man- just what Cameron and Travis had told him, as he helped the two of them out during their stakeout of the city, even as other military personnel had done their best to rebuff any questions at every cost. He had been all over the news as well after the disaster, spreading the information on Umbrella's sins to anyone who would listen.

"So...what are you doing here?"

"Well...after everything that happened in Raccoon City, I left the regiment," Fletcher explained, "felt that after everything I'd done that Umbrella would have gone after my career and ruined it anyway. Might as well have saved them the trouble, right? Anyway, not long after that a couple of Chris' friends got in touch with me- offered a chance 'to do some good in this world'. And so here I am..."

"Gordon's been a real help for us," Chris chipped in- "operational support, for the most part. If it weren't for him, a lot of people could have been killed over the last few years."

"It was the least I could have done," Fletcher responded, before correcting himself quickly. "Actually, it was all that I could have done- my fighting days are well behind me, I'm afraid. And besides, I couldn't just sit around all day and do nothing after I left the service- there had to be something more I could have done."

"And we all appreciate your help," Chris stated. "And this is"- he started to indicate towards the blonde-haired man, who just stepped forwards and offered his hand in greeting.

"Matheson," he stated, matter-of-fact- "Adrian Matheson. I'd just like to say it's a real pleasure to meet you finally, Dean." His handshake was firm and solid, a fact only further proved by the muscular physique that was visible beneath the black t-shirt he wore. "Especially after hearing so much about you from Chris and Gordon here."

"Uh...thanks," Dean replied, not sure how to sound at the somewhat cryptic greeting and the smile which crossed Matheson's lips. "Nice to meet you too, Mr Matheson. So...what's your story then?" he then asked, changing the subject as his hand was finally released.

"Adrian here used to be with the CIA," answered Gordon bluntly.

"Wait...what?" asked Dean, dumbfounded.

"It's true," Matheson nodded, "I'm afraid to say. I spent years investigating Umbrella's less...acceptable practices in the African Nations."

"So your fight was going on long before this was all started, right?" asked Dean.

"Indeed," sighed Matheson, before he launched himself into an explanation. "The agency had suspected them for years, but we had nothing concrete, of course- so they sent me out to Africa to investigate their operations out there. The towns out there which had Umbrella plants all seemed to suffer catastrophic accidents- normally due to their illegal B.O.W testing."

He sighed and lowered his head slightly. "I wasted ten years of my life out there- six years working in all manner of undercover roles, relying on contacts and informants for any information I could get, anything that would expose those bastards for what they really were. It destroyed my marriage, my friendships- pretty much everything that I held dear. But that was the sacrifice that we had to make- I had to accept there was no chance of me ever having a normal life again. And then it all changed."

"What changed?" asked Dean, though he fully expected the two word answer that he got.

"Raccoon City."

_Thought so..._

"After that went down, I was pulled back home, went back to working on domestic matters," Matheson continued, "but I kept an investigation on Umbrella going on the side- but my superiors made it clear they wanted me to drop it. I had my suspicions that they were on the take...but of course I had no proof whatsoever. In the end, they cut me loose- said that it was affecting my work too much. To be fair it had been affecting my work for years...but no use crying over spilt milk."

"I guess," Dean responded.

"But at least now I can give these guys some help anyway I can," Matheson then continued.

"Anyway you can?" said Fletcher loudly, before he let out a brief laugh. "Adrian, there was no way we could have afforded to use most of this stuff if you hadn't called in even half of your favours." His sweeping hand indicated the contents of the room they were standing in. Matheson just smirked in response.

"That's one perk of being a government agent- over time, people owe you favours. Most of this equipment you can only find in the most secure military facilities in the US," he explained, "but luckily I knew someone who could set us up. And likewise, I knew someone who works in construction..."

"I...see," Dean observed as he looked around the command centre. "I guess it's just as well. Not bad for an organisation which isn't 'officially recognised' yet," he then added, directing that statement at Chris.

"No, we're not officially recognised," Chris retorted, "but we've got a lot of people who would like Umbrella to answer for their crimes one way or another, and they help us out any way they can. The local state senator was able to get us the money to build the firing range and other facilities here."

"Oh, friends in high places?" asked Dean with a smirk.

"Every little helps," responded Matheson.

"So, what happens now?" Dean asked. "I'm here, so what do you need of me?"

"Field work," answered Fletcher, somewhat cryptically.

"Field work?" echoed Dean.

"Yeah," agreed Chris. "We got a mission in mind for you and a few others, within the next few days- until then, you've got free roam of this place- use the gym, the canteen, whatever you need- treat this as though it were your second home."

"Thanks," Dean responded, though still unsure regarding the vague comments about 'field work'. "Actually...you got any phones around here that I could use? I need to give my family a call, let them know that I'm alright. Didn't have the time yesterday..."

"Yeah sure," responded Matheson. "From the entrance, go left and follow the corridor to the end. You can't miss them, all free of charge."

"Thanks a lot. The rest of you don't mind if I...?"

"Go ahead," said Chris. "We need to sort some things out right now."

"Okay, I guess I'll see you around then," Dean responded, giving Matheson and Fletcher a quick nod, before turning and walking out of the room and back towards the entrance.

As he walked, thoughts turned over and over in his head with regards to the people he had just been talking to. He could trust Chris- of course he could. That guy had been nothing but gracious to him ever since he had first started at the R.P.D back in 1996- he'd play poker with him and a few other members of the S.T.A.R.S and R.P.D uniforms most Thursdays. He could trust Fletcher as well- the former Lieutenant had helped Cameron and Travis out a lot during the Raccoon City incident- and had risked a lot more in going public with the information he had fished out of the city to begin with.

But as for Matheson...

_First time I've met the guy- I don't know, he seemed a little too eager to meet me. But then again, he spent ten years of his life in Africa trying to expose Umbrella. Guess I wouldn't really blame the guy if he' s a little flaky around the edges..._

He found the phones, exactly where the former CIA agent had directed him to- a row of five standard payphones that you might see on countless street corners, but altered to the state where you didn't have to put any money in to use them, just as Matheson had also pointed out. He picked up one of the phones and dialled in the number for home. After listening to the dial tone for a while, he half expected no-one to answer him, until...

"Y'ello?" asked the sleepy-sounding voice of his father.

"Hey dad, it's me."

"Dean!" Joseph exclaimed, his voice brightening up immediately. "I was starting to think you'd been in a traffic accident or something- or your sister did, at least. She still worries about you, even now."

"I've done enough worrying about her in my life," Dean intoned, "so she's just catching up on that. Anyway, just to let you all know that we made it late last night- we're in this place at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains. There's a few familiar faces here, and everyone else I've met so far has been helpful."

"Well that's good to hear," Joseph responded, "so what do they need of you?"

"Well...they haven't outright said anything yet," Dean answered- "just something about 'field work'. They're acting like they want me to be James Bond or some other superspy." Joseph's broad laughter came down the phone from the other end.

"Oh, I'm sorry son, but you're not exactly spy material."

"Gee, thanks dad," responded Dean sarcastically.

And so their call continued- general light hearted banter that helped Dean to momentarily forget the massive implications of what he was currently wrapped up in. Though at the same time it reminded him of what he had left behind, and what he would never see again if this 'field work' lead him towards an early grave.

But that possibility didn't linger for too long in the back of his mind. Chris and the others clearly had a handle on things, they knew what they were doing- he was in safe hands. He just focused on his father giving a running commentary of what they had been up to since he had left- how things were going in the fields, what the rest of the town were up to- the mundane of everyday life.

And found himself hoping he would get a chance to return to the mundane one day.

**A/N: And so the pieces start to fall in place. Of course those of you who read The Fall of Raccoon will remember Gordon Fletcher as one of Dean's 'outsider allies' during the Raccoon City incident, but of course Adrian Matheson and Spencer Levinson are both new additions to the story- and they're both characters who will become intrinsic to Dean's future. And the others will be introduced to you all in the upcoming chapter...**

**So yeah, by the time this chapter goes up Resident Evil 6 will have been released. I've only played through most of Leon's campaign so far, but I'm enjoying it- it's great to actually be playing something which has the feel of the original games (zombies!) and the more bombastic OTT trappings of the recent RE's, and you finally have the ability to move and shoot at the same time now! Only took Capcom 16 years to make it that far. :p (and no, Operation Raccoon City doesn't count because it was horrible)**

**Anyways, you all know the drill by now- R & R as always, please. With any luck, I can update Tales from the Necropolis sometime soon. **


	9. Chapter 9: New and Old

Chapter 9: New and Old

**July 8****th****, 1003 hours**

'_That day was something of a turning point for me- it showed me just how far Umbrella's treachery had spread, how many people it had affected. And some of them would have earned my eternal loyalty and trust by the end of that damned mission...'_

_One...two...three...four...One...two...three...four..._

Dean stood in front of a small leather swing bag, keeping a silent rhythm in his head as he smacked it back and forth with repeated strikes from his right fist, and then switching over to his left hand on each count of 'four', repeating the process several times as he bounced on his feet in time to the rhythm.

He was dressed down in grey jogging bottoms and sweatshirt, sweat already starting to pool in the armpits and on his brow, dripping off in big, thick blobs. He had tape wrapped around his fists to protect them as he sparred. The rest of the gym was fairly full, including several who had gathered around the boxing ring as two men sparred with one another. It wasn't just a straight-up boxing match- there were plenty of judo and MMA-style takedowns and submission holds going on. He guessed it was meant to be friendly, but one of the combatants seemed to be getting a little carried away.

"What's that?" he asked mockingly as he clamped down on his opponent's ankle. "I can't hear you crying!"

Dean ignored it as he landed a few more combos on the swing ball, before he leaned back and put all his strength into a right-handed haymaker punch that smashed the ball back so hard that it almost came off of its fitting. He stepped away, breathing in and out slowly, his head lowered, letting a few drops of sweat fall onto the crash mat under his feet.

He snatched up a small towel and used it to wipe his forehead and neck clear of sweat, listening to the sounds of exertion around him, and the occasional thud of a body hitting the canvas of a boxing ring or crash mat as someone wound up on the wrong side of a judo takedown. He didn't know who any of these people were or what their history and backgrounds were, but they were all united by one common purpose- to take down Umbrella.

He eased himself into one of the rest benches beside the boxing bags which dangled upon their chains, gently rocking back and forth as fists and feet pummelled them. The man that he had met yesterday- Spencer Levinson- was standing before the far bag, attacking it with a mixture of traditional punches and kicks, along with a few open-palmed strikes and some knee strikes. His motions where calmer, more practiced than Dean's wild swings and swift punches.

Dean watched him for a while, after which he stopped himself, walking over to where Dean was sat. He had his own towel and water bottle with him, and his glasses were nowhere to be seen as well. "Hey," he said in greeting as he eased himself into the seat beside Dean, wiping his brow.

"Hey," Dean responded blankly, taking a quick swig from a water bottle. "So what was that?" he then asked.

"What was what?" asked Spencer curiously.

"That fighting style," Dean responded, pointing towards the boxing bag he had been pummelling not too long ago. "What was it?"

"Oh that?" asked Spencer with an awkward grin. "That was Karate- I dabbled a little when I was in college and university- ended up becoming a solid hobby for me. I guess it'll come in useful for me now, considering what we're doing here. Never know where the next fight will come from, right? Not every enemy will fight from behind a gun, right?"

"Guess so," Dean said, taking another swig of his water. "When I was at high school I started at the boxing club to pass the time, and also so I could defend myself a little better from the school bullies. Got sick of feeling like a moving target all the time. Still didn't help half the time," he finished with a sigh.

"Well I can safely say you've got a mean hook," Spencer commented. "I'd hate to be on your bad side."

"Who says you aren't?" Dean said as he fixed Spencer with a hard glare. When he saw how white the other man's face went though, he quickly backtracked. "Dude, I was yanking your chain, don't worry." Spencer seemed a little relieved by that remark. Just a little though.

There was a particularly heavy thud and the sound of air being sucked through several pairs of teeth as one of the men in the ring was slammed hard onto his back. The one who had just thrown him laughed out loud. "That _seriously _the best you got?!"

"Who's that guy?" Dean asked, pointing. Spencer glanced over towards the ring in the direction of Dean's outstretched finger.

"Oh, that guy?" he asked sarcastically. "Trust me, you don't want to get to know him. He's Theodore Finch- Ted to his friends, the ones he has at least. That guy's got an arrogant streak a mile wide. Before he came here he goes on about how he was some great soldier who served in Iraq and the African Nations- until they kicked him for being 'too physical'."

"Damn."

"So he ended up here because he fancied a 'new challenge'." He marked the works 'new challenge' with air quotes. "Honestly, he's insufferable. Spends half his time in here pulling weights and beating the hell out of the others and the other half on the shooting range. Guy's got a few screws loose if you ask me. I'm sure he doesn't even know what it is that Umbrella really does with its B.O.W research."

"I'll...keep that in mind," Dean commented, as he watched this Finch guy parade around the ring, arms above his head, as though he were King Kong himself. Several of the people watching looked about as bored as could be. This sight wasn't unusual to them, apparently.

There was one particular man standing at the far corner- arms crossed across his chest, just watching as Finch paraded himself around the ring like he was God's gift to the world. He was a little taller than Dean, with black spiky hair and blue eyes, a scar marking the left side of his face, wearing what looked like an old army jacket with regimental badges on the sleeves. As though he felt the gaze on him, he suddenly turned in Dean's direction.

The look was held for a few seconds, before he turned away, and then he walked away fully- out of direct sight. Dean's eyes still followed the man's path though for several feet.

_Have I met that guy before?_

But he was distracted from his thoughts when another figure strode in confidently, straight past his field of vision. He did a quick double take and saw it was a woman- young, perhaps in her mid-twenties at the most, her deep chestnut hair tied back in a short ponytail, hanging down to just above her shoulders. She was only little too- a small, delicate frame that stood around five and a half feet tall, dressed in the same workout gear much like the rest of the people in the gym. She walked right up to one of the boxing bags and dumped a small bag down on the mat, strapping on a pair of hand protectors as she did so. Then she turned to look at him.

Her face was much like the rest of her- small and delicate- while her cheeks flushed with a few freckles. Her pale blue eyes fixed him with the kind of piercing glance that would have frozen anyone dead in their tracks- at the moment it felt as though it had transfixed in the sights of a sniper scope. Then she turned away, and the rest of the world seemed to come back into focus.

Beside him, Spencer was grinning from ear to ear. "Dude, don't even think about it."

"Think about what?" asked Dean as he turned to face Spencer. The unknown woman was focused on the boxing bag in front of her now, assailing it with a combination of punches, kicks, as well as some painful-looking knee and elbow strikes. She didn't stop or even slow down remotely.

"Take it from me- she's been here for a week already and she's already broken the wrists of two guys who tried to talk to her." Dean just looked at him with a raised eyebrow, before continuing with his interrogation.

"Who is she anyway?" he then asked, as he watched the woman continue attacking the bag, including a spinning roundhouse kick that nearly knocked it off of its chains.

"She's Jayne Moran," Spencer responded, "from Chicago. She used to be with that activist group 'Healing the Globe'? Yeah, despite that name, they weren't averse to firebombing known animal testing facilities...and the odd Umbrella lab. Because, as well as working on bioweapons they were known to test some of their _legal_ products on animals."

"Those monsters," Dean observed sarcastically, though he was still watching the woman kick the hell out of the unfortunate boxing bag. It was swaying so badly on its chains it was in danger of flying off. Despite her small frame, it was clear this girl had a lot of pent-up aggression in her. She was grunting and shouting with each hard strike.

"Oh yeah, she's really pissed at Umbrella," Spencer added, lowering his voice somewhat. "She never talks about it though- you remember I said that she's already broken the wrists of two people here, right?"

"Yes, you did mention that," Dean answered, distractedly. Then the woman they had been speaking about at length stepped back from the bag, before letting out a shout and unleashing another spinning roundhouse kick. The bag rocked so badly that it came off of its chains this time, hitting the mat with a loud thud. She turned away from the fallen bag, breathing in and out sharply. She glanced around at the people who were looking in her direction now, but her face was completely unrepentant- she didn't care much for the fact she had just dislodged a heavy bag at least twice her weight with sheer physical power. None of those watching dared say anything- except Dean, that was.

"Good job- I think you killed it."

That remark earned him a look that could have killed him on the spot, before she gathered up her gear and walked straight out without a word. Once she was out of sight, the other people in the gym resumed their original activities.

"Lucky man," observed Spencer after a period of silence, "she didn't castrate you, at least."

At that moment, there was another commotion at the ring- and Finch's opponent went flying over the ropes, hitting the mat hard and scattering observers indiscriminately. A few others sucked air in through their teeth as they moved to aid the fallen man who was clutching at his arm.

"That's what you get!" Finch laughed, "you had better stay down if you know what's good for you!"

Dean took one look at Spencer, and rolled his eyes obviously. "You know, I've only been introduced to this guy's 'charms' and I already can't wait to wipe that smug look off of his face." He began to stand up and approach the ring, even as Spencer looked as though he wanted to suggest otherwise. As Dean approached the ringside, he saw Finch finally notice him and squint down at this new arrival. It was a look that said 'who the hell are you?'

"Ah, new guy, eh?" he asked casually, removing the Velcro strap that held on his practice headgear before removing it. "Been a few of you, recently."

"Yeah, I'm a new guy," Dean responded casually. "Dean Travers."

Recognition flashed across Finch's face. "Oh, I see. Dean Travers- the man who survived Raccoon City. I see you've joined this little righteous crusade, eh hero?"

Theodore Finch was a man possessed of a face that only a mother could love- shaved head, cold gray eyes, and a nose which had clearly been broken more than once in the past- as well as a pair of lean, muscular arms marked with numerous tattoos- including the Marine Corps logo and the badge for the Army Rangers, a few inches along his left forearm marked with a tribal tattoo of Polynesian design. His short, squat body also gave one an impression of his strength.

"I'm not a hero," Dean responded, "but all I can hear is you going on about being the best there is, so I was thinking why don't you show me?" A smile slowly crossed Finch's face- almost like a shark relishing its next meal.

"Oh?" he asked sweetly. "So, you think you've got what it takes? Well get up here then and we'll see how much of a hero that you are."

"If you insist," said Dean in a sing-song tone, climbing up onto the ringside.

* * *

><p>Five minutes later, the stage was set. Dean was now in the ring proper, wearing a head guard and red foam sparring gloves and knee pads while Finch was stood opposite him, checking that his own gear (in a stylish cobalt blue) was comfortable enough. The crowd in the gym had all gathered around the ring, some of them whispering between one another in taking bets on who would come out victorious. Spencer stood near to Dean's corner, a worried look on his face.<p>

"You know the rules, right?" he half-shouted, pulling himself up on the ropes, closer to Dean's height. "It counts as a strike if your shoulders hit the mat fully- best of five, so first to score three points."

"Yeah, I know," Dean responded as he tightened the Velcro straps on his gloves. "Don't worry, I'll be fine."

"I hope so," Spencer responded, "just watch out for his ankle lock." Dean nodded to confirm that he had taken that information on board.

"You ready?" called out Finch from his corner, stepping forward and swinging a few punches at thin air, "I don't have all day!" Dean's only response was to step forwards, fists risen.

The two men started to circle one another slowly, neither of them willing to launch the first attack. The crowd surrounding the ring started to shout and jostle to see, most of them shouting at Finch to 'show who the boss is' while the rest shouted for the new guy (they still didn't know who Dean was). Eventually, Dean had enough of the circling and stepped forwards, throwing a left jab punch-

-only for Finch to catch his fist in a double hold, before turning and tossing his opponent over his shoulder in a classic judo take down Dean slammed down onto the canvas hard, the shock shooting up and down his spine. The crowd let out a groan as Dean writhed about on the canvas.

"I believe that's one to me," laughed Finch as he backed away, bouncing on his feet. Dean glanced up and saw Spencer watching him from the side, mouthing at him to 'stay down'. Dean shook his head in response, pushing himself onto his feet slowly and steadily.

"Just getting my grove back, don't worry..." he whispered, looking over at Finch and raising his fists. "Ready to go again?" he asked, which received a smirk in response. The two men resumed circling one another again as the crowd started to bay and raise their voices. At one point, a smirking Finch stepped forwards and threw a quick one-two boxing combo followed by a hook punch, but Dean ducked around the one-two and blocked the hook with one arm. His other arm lashed out with a jab into Finch's face, and he stepped back in surprise.

"I'll give you that one," he growled, before coming at Dean with another hook punch and a quick knee strike in follow-up, before attempting a leg sweep aimed at Dean's ankles. A quick hop avoided the sweep that could have knocked him down again, before he suddenly dove forwards with open arms, trying to clamp down around his ankle.

_There it is!_

Dean was able to step back in good time to avoid the ankle grab, and then bobbed back as Finch came after him with an uppercut punch. Dean countered by swinging his right hand into Finch's ribs to wind him, then following with a left hook that drove him onto his knees, and finishing the combination chain by kicking him in the sternum hard, pushing him further back but not onto the floor. The baying crowd started to shout and cheer. "Now you're just pissing me off!" yelled Finch, rising up and slamming into Dean's stomach in an attempt to tackle him to the canvas, but Dean stayed on his feet, bringing his elbow down on Finch's back, before turning sharply and throwing him roughly to the canvas with a loud thud. His shoulders slammed down hard.

"I'd say that's one each," called out Spencer with a grin, but he was silenced by a harsh glare from one of Finch's cronies. The shaved-haired man rose to his feet, shaking his head clear as he started to bounce on his feet. Dean just cracked his neck and resumed his circling.

Finch came at Dean with another combination of punches- a left-right hook combo, a right straight punch, an uppercut with his left, and a lunging haymaker with his right to finish. Dean was able to block or duck around each punch, but when the haymaker came, Finch suddenly stopped halfway and sharply turned one-eighty degrees, his reverse elbow striking Dean in the cheek instead.

"Oh shit!" cried someone in the crowd as Dean fell against the ropes, before Finch was right up in his face again, driving his gloved fists into Dean's face, torso and ribs- anywhere he could get them basically. He tried to finish with a high kick, but Dean was able to duck down and get behind Finch, pushing him forwards against the ropes as he backed away, but a backwards kick to the stomach from Finch left him badly winded. As he stepped back, his opponent leapt forwards, spinning around Dean by locking with his elbow, before grabbing him in a headlock and throwing him onto the canvas. As Dean tried to struggle up again, Finch grabbed onto his shoulders and lifted him up and over his head to slam him down again with a classic wrestling suplex.

"Take it, bitch!" growled Finch as he leapt back to his feet like some great hero who had just won the war for his side. Dean just groaned as he lay back-first on the canvas, noticing that Spencer was looking more and more concerned by the second. He was still sore from when the Fake Perry Arnold had nearly beaten him to death at his own home.

"Don't worry...I got this," he sighed as he rose to his feet again. He shook his hands out as Finch turned towards him once more, a sneer crossing his face.

"Eager to go down for the last time?" he asked sarcastically. "Happy to oblige"-

He was just finished when Dean's right-handed haymaker punch came out of nowhere. It struck Finch in the face so hard that he was knocked clean off of his feet, crashing onto the canvas and left holding his face for a good few seconds. The crowd let out a few shouts of shock and awe, several of them laughing at Finch's misfortune. Dean glanced into the ranks of faces outside, noticing the woman (Jayne) and the black-haired man from beforehand were now watching, the latter showing a slight smile on his face.

"Next point takes it," Dean said to Finch, as the latter flipped onto his feet, rage starting to tinge his face a distinctly unattractive shade of purple.

"You fucking _prick!_" Finch screamed, clearly not aware of the concept of 'losing gracefully'. He charged forwards once more, his fists unleashing a wild flurry of punches and swings. There was a wide hook which Dean ducked under and an attempted gut strike which Dean blocked with his own arms, quickly followed up by another low leg sweep that was hopped over and a fast combination of punches that all kissed thin air as Dean ducked and weaved like he was fighting for his life. The way it stood, this guy seemed to be taking the fact that Dean was putting up a fight somewhat personally.

There was a punch directed towards Dean's gut, which he blocked with one hand clamped around Finch's wrist. Then he stepped forward and rammed his elbow into the man's face, making him stumble back a couple of steps. With an angered shout, he tried to counter by tackling Dean once again, but the former R.P.D officer managed to grab onto his shoulders and use his own momentum to sweep him about, throwing him against one of the corner posts in the ring. A few people in the crowd let out a drawn-out 'ooohhh' as Finch bounced off of the post-

-and into an extended clothesline from Dean. Nearly cut off at the sternum, Finch was swept off of his feet. But Dean wasn't done yet as he wrapped his arm tightly around Finch's body and dragged him down to the canvas as he sank onto his knees, slamming him down with enough force to expel whatever air was left from his lungs.

Most of the crowd watching the little match fell quiet; shocked at what had just unfolded. Sure, Finch may have given them all more than enough entertainment since he had first come to this building days ago, but actually seeing someone else best him- especially someone who was essentially unproven- was something else altogether. They remained quiet even as Dean rose to his feet sluggishly, before pulling off his practice gloves and his headgear, tossing them over the ropes.

"Three to me," he said, short of breath, as he approached where Spencer was watching from. Behind him, Finch glowered visibly as he ripped off his head guard and gloves and got to his feet.

"Oh wow," Spencer observed as Dean prepared to step out of the ring, one leg stepping in between the bottom and middle ropes, ducking his torso underneath so that he had one leg left inside. "Guess you showed him, after all. Good work."

"Thanks," Dean gasped with a smile. "I picked up a few pointers from watching pro wrestling on the TV when I was younger."

"I gathered," Spencer responded, as the crowd started to disperse, their entertainment over for the moment. "You do realize that's all staged though?"

"And?" scoffed Dean. "It still helped me out this time, didn't it? Although..." He trailed off as he winced and held a hand to his side.

"You alright?" asked Spencer.

"I'll live," replied Dean, brushing off Spencer's concern, "just some fallout from the last guy who tried to beat me to death"- He didn't get much chance to say anything else before Finch entered the conversation- swinging an unprotected fist into the side of Dean's head at full speed.

Dean fell from the ringside, smacking his head against the rim of the canvas as he fell. Stars and other bright shapes swam in his vision as Spencer stepped back in shock, his mouth shouting out some loud curse as other people in the gym suddenly turned to see what was happening. Theodore Finch- his face marked with many bruises- leapt over the ropes out of the ring. Then he hoisted Dean up by his shoulders and rammed his head into Dean's face, sending him sprawling.

"You fucking piece of shit!" he growled, smashing his fist into Dean's face a few times as he went sprawling across the edge of the canvas, grabbing onto the ropes in an effort to stay on his feet.

"Cut it out!" yelled Spencer, stepping in to try and separate them- only to receive a backhanded blow to the face as a result. He fell without any resistance.

"Stay out this you little shit!" growled Finch, but the distraction had allowed Dean the chance to recover- he kicked Finch in the stomach, before grabbing him by the back of his head and ramming his face into the canvas edge, and then punching him across the bruised face to knock him back. He straightened himself up, his cheek badly swollen.

"What the _fuck _is your problem?!" Dean half-yelled, fists balled, ready for another fight. "You lost fair and square, get over yourself you arrogant prick!" Finch didn't offer a reply as he scrambled onto his feet, fist raised for another strike-

-until someone else came up behind Finch, grabbing his arm and twisting it behind his back to pin it in place, before shoving him forward to restrain him face-first against the edge of the canvas. It was the black-haired man wearing the army jacket, his face locked into an expression showing part disgust and part pity. "Get your fucking hands off me!" growled Finch, trying to break free, but the only response was to be pushed further into the canvas, his arm being twisted a little further. _"Ah!"_

"You know what, Finch?" the other man asked rhetorically, "you did lose fair and square, like he said. Get the fuck over yourself. Besides, how many times have we had this conversation about how you should be making friends instead of treating everyone else like dirt?" When Finch didn't answer, he twisted the pinned arm some more. "Well? You got anything to say? I can do this all day if needs be, or I can get Matheson to take over."

"Ah! Fuck you, Taylor!"

"Wrong answer." Another twist of Finch's arm. A louder scream of agony.

"Ah! Alright, I'm sorry, okay?!" Finch yelled. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry that I was a bad loser! I accept that you won fair and square!"

"Better," Taylor responded, releasing Finch and shoving him away, so that he was on the opposite side from where Dean was stood. "Now get the hell out of my sight and I won't pass this on to the others."

"Fine," growled Finch, clutching at his sore arm. He cast a glare towards Dean, and then stalked away out of the gym. Several of the other spectators watched him go, and then turned towards Taylor.

"What's the problem?" he asked, glancing around. "Show's over, go on!" With that, they walked away to find something else to do. He turned to face Dean after that, who was helping Spencer back onto his feet.

"Thank you," he said, before realizing they were standing around with the scar-faced man. At this close range, they could see the scar along the left side of Taylor's face now. It was long and thin- perhaps from a knife or a glancing bullet wound, it was hard to tell.

"No worries," Taylor replied, "Finch always finds it hard to make new friends, to say the least. I'm just glad that I was able to help out Dean Travers himself."

"Oh, so you know who I am?" Dean asked. "My reputation precedes me, I guess."

"Maybe I know you better than you realize " Taylor responded cryptically. Dean arched his brow, his mind turning over and over itself in an effort to try and work out where he had seen this guy before. In the end, he decided that a direct approach was called for.

"Have we met before?" he asked.

"I don't think so," Taylor responded, reaching his hand out. "Mark Taylor."

"Wait- you're"-

"Yeah. I was Ben's old partner." After that bombshell was followed by more silence, he lowered his hand and suggested, "how about we sit down and talk about this in the canteen rather than just standing about?"

* * *

><p>A short while later, both men were sat facing one another on one of the smaller tables in the building's canteen. Though neither of them had directly met one another prior to today, both of them had one thing which linked them both- a mutual friend and work partner in the form of Ben Campbell.<p>

"Ben used to talk about you all the time," Mark began, taking a sip from the cup of coffee he had before him.

"Good things, I hope," Dean responded sarcastically.

Mark laughed a little. "He said that you were the miserable one that he bought back around in High School," Mark continued, and Dean winced slightly. "And that you and him had always been there for one another, no matter what. Honestly, he never shut up whenever he got talking about you or your hometown...Riverview, wasn't it?" Dean nodded.

"Well he never said much about you, though," Dean stated with a sigh. "And every time I was in town he always said you never got the time to come and introduce yourself."

"Unfortunately," Mark replied.

"But your brother was in the S.W.A.T team, wasn't he?" asked Dean. "Robert, wasn't it?" Mark nodded, but the look on his face indicated that he didn't really want to say anything else about that particular subject.

"It was a damn shame, what happened to Ben," he continued, changing the subject. Dean lowered his head slightly, distracted from commenting on anything else, but Mark was already speaking on something else. "I was there, you know- in Raccoon City. When everything happened."

"You were?" asked Dean, glancing up. The blue-eyed man nodded.

"Yeah. I thought that after all the crap of being in the service I could go home and enjoy the important things in life- how deluded, right? I was at the Sharks game with my dad and my little brother when shit went down," he explained, looking off into the distance. "It was just...Christ, it was so fucking crazy. One second everything was fine, and the next- people were killing each other, eating each other."

"I know," Dean responded, his voice sounding oddly hollow. "That barricade on Raccoon Street- we didn't have a damned chance. So many people dead in the space of a few minutes. Fucking hell- it didn't seem real, like it couldn't have happened- it _shouldn't_ have happened." Both men fell silent, lost in their own thoughts- Raccoon City was a name that had become intrinsically linked with a great tragedy, and by and large, a shared sorrow as well. Words weren't necessary.

"How did it happen?" asked Mark, looking up suddenly. "How did Ben die?"

"You don't need to know that," Dean sighed, looking away.

"Actually, I do," Mark responded firmly, fixing Dean with a harsh glare. "I may not have known him as well as you did, but he was still my partner, and he was a good man. So please- I _need _to know." Dean looked at him for what seemed like an age, until he finally relented.

"We were looking for a way to escape through an Umbrella storage facility. Along the way, the facility's director- some crazy son of a bitch called Malcolm Donovan- tried to kill us more than once. In the end, he unleashed a Tyrant- one of Umbrella's most powerful B.O.W's."

"Dean, I know what a Tyrant is- believe me."

After a short pause, Dean continued. "Anyway, it came after us- nearly killed us both as a result. In the end, when it got the upper hand and was about to finish me off, Ben got in the way- he took the hit for me. Damn thing probably shattered his rib cage with that single punch. As a result, Ben didn't survive the journey out of town." Mark lowered his head, his tongue probing around inside his mouth as he processed what he had just been told.

"That sounds like Ben," he said finally. "Always looking out for his friends. Our first patrol together, he saved me from being shot by some no-good gang hood in Downtown Raccoon who got pulled over just for having a tail light out on his car. I owed him so much after that. I should have done something, damn it," he sighed, sitting back in his seat. "Fuck- I owed him as much."

After a few more beats of silence, Dean spoke up again. "You couldn't have known what was going to happen in Raccoon City," he reasoned- "no-one could have. Hell, I don't think if you told me what would have happened in Raccoon City before the fact, I would have probably ran in the opposite direction."

"I'd say," chuckled Taylor, though it was a darker gesture than one would expect. Dean figured the experiences of Raccoon City at the very least had changed Mark Taylor's outlook on life- much like Dean's had been. He wouldn't blame him if that were the case.

"You been here long, then? With the group?"

"A few months now," Taylor responded, "me and a few others- people who helped me out in Raccoon City."

"People?" asked Dean. "Who?"

"Some former Umbrella employees," Taylor explained- "specifically, some people from Umbrella's Special Forces." He noticed the distrustful look that Dean was giving him, and he sighed. "Look, I know what you're thinking."

"Really?" asked Dean, "somehow I doubt that. After the week I've had I've learned not to trust anybody now, even people who claim to be friends."

"Well they saved my life more than once," Taylor replied stoically. "I trust them." Their stares remained locked for a few seconds.

"Fair enough," conceded Dean.

"Taylor."

A female voice prompted them both to turn towards the doors, even if the voice was only directed at Mark. Dean saw two people standing just inside the open doorway- a man and a woman. The man looked barely out of his twenties and skinny like a twig, but the woman was more striking. She was tall and had red hair, along with a stern face.

"It's time to go," she stated, her voice having traces of a French accent.

"Guess duty calls," Taylor sighed as he stood up, Dean doing the same. "It was nice to finally meet you, Dean. I'm sure we've got a lot more to talk about the next time we meet."

"I look forward to it," Dean smiled, before they shook hands once more.

"See you around, Travers," Mark replied, before he turned and walked away, following the other two out of the cafeteria. Dean watched them go, playing with his coffee mug a little more, before Spencer Levinson reappeared, sliding into the recently-vacated sear left by Mark.

"Friend of yours?" he asked, rubbing the fresh bruise he had taken from Finch.

"More like a friend of a friend," Dean responded, shaking his head slowly. "I'd never met him before today- shows what a small world this is."

"Yup," nodded Spencer, before he looked over at Dean and noticed his recent bruises and cuts on his face from Finch. "You alright?"

"I'll live," Dean smirked. "Besides, I've had worse. When I was a boy, I used to climb this tree on my family farm all the time- then one time I fell and broke my arm. Hurt like a son of a bitch at the time, but after they fixed it at the hospital, I loved having that cast on for weeks. Luckily I haven't broken anything else since then- guess I'm lucky."

"Luck only gets you so far," added a new voice, as the woman from earlier- Jayne- slid into the chair opposite the two men, a playful smile on her lips. Her voice had the blur of those who had been raised in Illinois their whole life. "Good job on putting Finch in his place- that bastard was starting to rub everyone up the wrong way, acting like he was the best in the world." Her blue eyes fixed Dean to the spot once more, and for a moment he was lost for words.

"Well yeah," he said finally, breaking eye contact, "there were a few jerks like him in my high school. It was nothing new, but he needed taking down a few pegs anyway for everyone else's sake."

"Amen to that," Jayne replied, leaning back in her seat. "At least people will know you for more than just being the guy who survived Raccoon City." Then she leaned forwards, an eyebrow raised. "Though something tells me that's exactly what you want."

Dean was silent for a while as he tried to work out the exact meaning behind her words. "Maybe," he responded instead, trying to keep on neutral ground. "I was never someone who liked being the centre of attention. Raccoon City...that was something no-one should have been exposed to, and yet I got stuck there."

"Unlucky for you," she intoned. He gave her a quick glance, trying to work out what she meant by that.

"Yeah," he said instead. "Not exactly my best life choice to move there. What about you?"

"What about me?" she asked, her tone bordering on prickly. He hesitated for a few moments.

"What happened that bought you here? What grudge do you have against Umbrella?" She looked at him for a while, before she lowered her gaze and chuckled, though it was hardly a warm-hearted gesture.

"Tell you what," she said, leaning forwards, "I really don't care about what happened to you in Raccoon City, so why don't you do me a favor and don't be so damn nosy about my history, right?"

Dean blinked, taken aback by her borderline hostile response. "Excuse me?"

"And another thing?" she said as she stood up, "I hope that if we are going to end up working together then I hope your experiences in Raccoon City won't make you a liability." And with that said, she turned and walked out of the canteen, forcing a couple other people to make a wide berth around her, leaving Dean and Spencer by themselves in awkward silence.

"See what you mean now," Dean sighed eventually. "Is she always like this?"

"About...90% of the time I'd say," Spencer responded. "She talks well enough with Matheson and a few of the other 'seniors', but everyone else she treats the same- like an enemy, like we're all out to get her."

"Well maybe something bad happened to her," Dean reasoned.

"Well either way it's no excuse to push everyone else away," Spencer replied. "It's really starting to strain relations. I mean there are enough people here with their own tragedies but they need to start pulling together if this is going to work."

Dean just nodded slowly. The man was right- unless they got past their differences; he knew he wouldn't be able to work alongside people like Finch and this Jayne Moran. Time would tell...

**A/N: And here we are again. And with Jayne Moran's introduction, Dean has now been introduced to the two people who will become very good friends of his in the future, as well as a couple other faces who will become firm features of the ongoing Travers saga (as I refer to my Resident Evil series now). And without going into too much detail, Jayne's appearance and parts of her personality (when she does defrost) is based on a few women in my life, naming no names. :p**

**Speaking of which, Mark Taylor does not belong to me- he belongs to Tomaka167, who was first introduced in the story 'Raccoon City: Viral outbreak' (I think it was called) and we have now started to collaborate in some cross-fanfic action- since both characters are part of the same group they are of course going to be interacting with one another, and with any luck the interaction's going to continue into the future. I was originally intending to have this chapter sent to Tomaka so that he could read over it to see if he was happy with Mark's portrayal in this chapter, but I was eager to get this up so if you're reading this Tomaka then I do apologize- if you do want anything changing in this chapter then just drop me a line and I'll edit it as soon as I can.**

**Also, I took a little break from writing RE fics just to recharge my creative batteries, so with any luck I can get back into writing and updating chapters for Dead Memories and TFTN in the near future. As always, R & R please, all feedback is appreciated. **


	10. Chapter 10: Your First Time

Chapter 10: Your First Time

**July 9****th****, 1131 hours**

'_My dad once told me that there's a first time for everything, and on the face of it, I have to agree with him. Raccoon City, Umbrella's B.O.W's- hell, even the little crusade I was involved in right now. And there's a lot of emotion that goes along with new experiences. I just hope some of these people can deal with things better than I have so far.'_

"_And down you go!"_

Dean's world was turned upside down yet again before he hit the crash mat hard. Suffice to say, his shoulders and his back were starting to throb quite nicely after the last hour or so of being subjected to a different series of takedown techniques from Jill Valentine. Speaking of which, her upside-down head entered his vision.

"You okay down there?" she asked with a wry smile.

"Yeah, just peachy," he groaned as he sat up, and then allowed her to help pull him onto his feet proper, adding, "This seemed like _such _a good idea when you first suggested it."

The gym wasn't as full as it had been yesterday, though a good number of people gathered around the punch bags or on the crash mats as they practiced their own takedowns on one another. Theodore Finch was there as well, absolutely beating the hell out of the far punch bag, clearly still stinging from his prior defeat yesterday. He glanced back every now and then.

For his own part Dean was sparring with Jill on one of the larger crash mats in the far corner of the gym. Dean was in similar exercise gear as he was yesterday, except it was navy blue this time. Jill was dressed similarly, except that she was barefoot and she wore a vest top that exposed her perfectly toned arms- she wasn't overtly muscular, but there wasn't a bit of fat on her bones either.

"Don't worry, you'll get there eventually," she insisted, extending her arms forward with open palms and arching her back slightly in a classic fighting stance.

"Remind me why we're doing this again?" Dean asked as he mirrored her pose, just as she leaned back and executed a high roundhouse kick that he ducked underneath. "Unless you just happen to be a masochist?" he added sarcastically, as he ducked another spinning kick, and then weaved sideways as she tried to thrust a wrist into his face. He grabbed onto her arm and pushed back, creating some space.

"To keep you on your toes," she replied, ducking as he swung his fist high. "You never know what tricks your opponent will have up their sleeve so you have to be prepared for anything," she continued, attempting a low leg sweep that Dean backed away from. Then she was on her feet again, throwing another punch towards his face, but he blocked it with a raised forearm. "Boxing won't save you all the time."

He shoved her fist away and made a swing with the other hand, but she easily grabbed onto his wrist, twisted his arm around and flung him over her shoulder onto the mat, once again. As he lay there groaning softly, she shook her head slowly.

"How many more times are you going to fall for that?" she asked. Though her tone bordered on admonishment, he knew that she was only trying to help him in her own little way. He sat up and then got to his feet proper, holding one hand to his side.

"You do realise I'm still a little tender from yesterday?" he said sarcastically. "Finch hits pretty damn hard."

"Well if you don't up your game then Finch will just beat you worse than he did the first time," Jill responded, coldly. Feeling his frustration starting to rise, he turned to face her, raising his arms once more. "Try again!" she half-shouted, "until you get it right!" He suddenly had flashbacks of being admonished in front of the rest of his high school gym glass by Mr Burns and felt his frustration coming out a little.

_Boy, that guy was a prick._

She threw a few more practice punches at him- firm enough to be as close to a real attack as possible, and yet soft enough to avoid making any permanent damage. He dodged and ducked each one, until she attempted another high roundhouse kick. This time he blocked the kick and then moved around, shoving her in the back, forcing her to try and lash out with a backhand instead.

As though working on muscle memory, he grabbed onto her wrist and turned, pulling down sharply with enough force to lift Jill up and over his shoulder and throwing her down onto the mat. They remained in their respective positions for a few more seconds, Dean panting slowly and leaning hard on his knees briefly.

"How was that?" he asked.

"Good job," she complimented, propping herself up on her elbows. "You learned something at least"-

-but then she suddenly jerked her leg around behind his ankles, sweeping him off his feet so he hit the mat yet again, before she took the moment to sweep her leg over him so she could pin his own arm across his throat, her other hand poised to deliver a knockout strike. He tried to lift his other hand in a submissive gesture.

"-but never let your guard down, even if your opponent is on the ground."

"Of course," he managed to gag. She released some of the pressure across his throat, leaning back slightly. "But that goes both ways"-

And then he bucked his body with enough force to throw Jill off of him, rolling over so that he was the one on top pinning her to the mat, her own arms crossed across her chest so that she couldn't try and break free much like he had just done.

"I'm not a complete idiot- I do occasionally pay attention," he insisted, before he released his hold on Jill and stood back up, offering an arm to pull her back onto her feet. Close by, a few of the other people in the gym were starting to smirk to themselves, others clapping slowly in a sarcastic manner.

"So I noticed," she smirked. "Good one, Dean. You'll be a good pupil after all I think. Come on, let's take five."

"I was hoping you'd never say that," Dean sighed, clutching his side again as he followed her over towards the rest benches. As they both sat down, she noticed how he winced slightly.

"You alright?"

"Still a little sore from yesterday," he explained as he took a swig from his water bottle. "Some people need to accept that life isn't fair," he added, looking up towards where Thedore Finch was practicing his punches against one of the large bags. After pummelling it for a few seconds with a flurry of low and high strikes, he turned and glared straight at Dean, the purple bruise from where he had been pinned face-first against the canvas edge by Mark Taylor after his little 'outburst' yesterday. Then he went back to beating the hell out of the bag.

"Forget about him," Jill said as she noticed Finch herself. "He's a classic narcissist- in love with himself. Long as you don't let him walk all over you should be fine."

"Thanks," Dean smiled as Finch finally turned away from their gaze. "And don't worry- I've already learned not to give him any leeway though." They sat in relative silence for a few minutes, until Dean spoke up once more. "What do you know about him?"

"Finch? Well, he's one of those career soldiers," Jill answered, "started with regular infantry, then moved onto special ops- served in the Middle East and African nations, counter-terrorism, peacekeeping missions, the like. They kicked him because he went too far interrogating some P.O.W's. He broke some poor bastard's arm in half and poured boiling water over the head of another."

"Jesus. So how did he end up here?" inquired Dean. "He doesn't exactly seem...too bothered about what we do."

"No, he's not," Jill agreed with a smirk. "Chris scouted him out- he reckoned that we need someone with military experience to be our 'muscle'. You've probably already seen but some of the other people here don't exactly have a lot of combat experience."

"And you think Finch would help straighten them out?" Dean asked, incredulous. "He's a narcissist- as you said- arrogant and has no respect for authority. What makes you think he'll be beneficial to the cause?"

"Because I trust Chris's judgement," Jill replied simply. "That's enough for me." Dean just shrugged, knowing how important trust was between partners. He knew that unspoken bond of trust between himself and Ben was enough when they patrolled the streets of Raccoon City- to know when to cover each other's backs when they headed into an unknown situation, such as going in to arrest a suspect, not knowing if they were armed or not.

"What do you know about that Taylor guy?" he then asked, changing the subject.

"You mean Mark Taylor?" she asked, and he nodded slowly. "Well, I know that he used to be in the R.P.D. Me and Chris recruited him to the movement a few months ago- he'd been stuck in Raccoon City too, and then he and a few others had been fighting against Umbrella by themselves."

"How many of them?" asked Dean curiously.

Jill shrugged her shoulders. "Only...about five or six or them- I don't know the full numbers. Most of them were Raccoon City survivors, so they weren't novices- but still, fighting that war by yourself...wasn't an easy thing to do."

"I think I saw a couple of them yesterday," Dean responded.

"Yeah, that's about the only people he hangs out with," Jill replied, shrugging her shoulders. "He's been pretty hostile towards everyone else- even we don't know what exactly happened to him- he hasn't exactly been forthcoming. After Raccoon City I don't blame him." Dean nodded slowly, his eyes scanning the room.

"Everyone here's got their own story," he mused quietly, "their own reason for wanting Umbrella buried. I suppose I should have realized a long time ago that I wasn't the only one who had lost something in Raccoon City..." He glanced around to see that Jill didn't seem to be listening- she was staring down at the floor instead.

"Jill?"

"I'm fine," she said, insistently. "Just...I was thinking about the past, that's all. We were the first ones, remember? The first ones who saw Umbrella's creations and who they really were. You never forget the first time."

* * *

><p><em><strong>July 25th 1998, 0107 hours, somewhere in the Arklay Forest...<strong>_

"_A dining room..."_

_There were times that Jill wanted to slap Barry Burton for stating the obvious, but after the night they had endured so far, so decided to hold back. Bravo Team's helicopter was downed, Kevin was dead, so was Joseph, Chris was MIA, Brad had ditched them- and now Wesker had sent them off to investigate the gunshots that they had heard not too long ago. _

_It was a dining room, but one that was enough to impress even the most cynical critic. A pair of grand chandeliers hung from the ceiling- itself circled by a second-floor balcony, while the huge oak table itself was set for at least a dozen people, the cutlery made from silver while a few candlesticks remained unlit, the tablecloth half-pulled from the table haphazardly. On the right side of the room stood a towering grandfather clock, its loud ticking creating an almost oppressive atmosphere- like they weren't welcome in this house. And at the far end of the dining room was a huge open range fire, flames throwing a warm glow across the floor and walls. Above it hung a wooden emblem in the shape of a shield, bearing an unfamiliar crest. _

_Without a word being said, Barry took the right side of the room- his Silver Serpent revolver raised- while Jill took the left side, passing by a small table holding a large vase and a few tall windows that looked directly out into the forest. It was way too dark to see outside, save for the odd flash of lightning that was almost blinding anyway. As she stepped forward attentively, the sounds of their boots against the floor was almost swallowed up by the incessant ticking of the grandfather clock._

_Tick...tock...tick...tock..._

_Jill's hands tightened around the grip of her Samurai Edge handgun. Though she had seen enough dead bodies in the past, having to stand by and watch Joseph getting ripped limb from limb by those skinless dogs was something else entirely- she had been rooted to the spot as it happened, listening to the wet sounds of flesh and skin being ripped from the bone, listening to his frantic screams as they trailed off into bloody gurgles. Even her 9mm bullets hadn't stopped them from feeding. She was totally paralyzed with fear. There was nothing she could have done, she kept telling herself, but it didn't help curb the reality of the situation._

_Tick...tock...tick...tock..._

_If that wasn't bad enough, Chris's disappearance was another major concern for them. Everyone knew that Chris was Wesker's favored operative in the Alpha Team, and he had proved that distinction time and time again in their previous missions. But even his skill couldn't have saved him from tripping as they fled from those dogs- she had looked over her shoulder in time to see him tumble and fall, but hadn't seen what happened next- but considering what was chasing them, it seemed highly unlikely. Wesker's cold warning that she should stay inside the mansion for her own safety hadn't helped to temper her anxiety either. _

_She glanced across the table at Barry, who had passed the grandfather clock by now. He paid no attention to the peculiar painting that hung on the wall beside it, but Jill did. It depicted a pair of men in what looked like 14__th__ Century garb locked in a duel with swords- the one on the right had succeeded in driving his short dagger through his opponent's chest, but had subsequently taken a long sword through the skull in response. Despite its somewhat tacky subject matter, it looked genuine- and expensive. Even from the grand front hall it was clear whoever owned this house had a lot of money. _

_She peered out through the last window along her side of the room. Even after staring into the inky blackness for several seconds, she couldn't pick out any details save for the gently swaying tree branches. Logic gained from watching old horror movies stated that you should avoid the creepy old mansion in the woods, but it was the only building in the area that they could have fled to, so it was too late now. _

_By then, Barry had reached the end of the room, and was now stood beside the fire, staring down at the floor tiles. "Jill, you should take a look at this," he called out over his shoulder._

"_What is it?" she asked as she approached. He was crouched down now, over a pool of sticky red fluid that was beside the fire, alongside a couple of shell casings. He rubbed a couple of his fingers in it and bought it up to his nose to sniff at it. Though Jill recognized the coppery tang in the air before he even offered an answer._

"_Blood," he said ominously. "And this brass is still warm," he then added, rolling one of the casings about between his fingers. When she didn't say anything else, he glanced to his right, towards a wooden door that was set in the wall directly opposite him. He stood up and turned to face her. _

"_You have a look around," he suggested next, "see if you can find any other clues- I'll be examining this." _

"_Okay," Jill nodded, her voice sounding a little thin. As she did, Barry crouched down once more, muttering another ominous statement. _

"_I just hope this isn't Chris's blood..."_

_Jill swallowed. Comments like that didn't help, but she remained optimistic. After all, Chris had fallen behind them during the mad dash through the forest, so it was highly unlikely that he would have made it to the mansion ahead of them. The next obvious choice would have been a member of Bravo Team- but if they were shooting at something, then what? Did they come across one of the cannibal killers? _

_Unable to shake that feeling of dread, Jill took up her gun again and glanced over towards the nearby door, noticing a small smear of red across the frame. Taking a few steps closer, she wiped her finger through it and it spread further across the wall- fresh. After a quick glance back at Barry, she opened the door and stepped through. It creaked loudly as it swung shut behind her._

_Jill found herself stood in a long corridor, and if anything the atmosphere here was even more oppressive than in the dining room- all-pervading silence drowned out nearly everything else, save for Jill's gentle heartbeats and her breathing. The corridor extended far to her right, a couple more doors along the left hand side of the passage, while its end terminated in a pair of doors. To the left, the passage only extended several yards before turning a right-angled corner. Another window decorated the wall, flashes of lightning illuminating the passage walls for brief periods of time. _

_See saw more blood smeared across the walls as the lightning flashed, as well as what looked to be a bare footprint imprinted on the floorboards, also outlined in blood. She raised her gun and took a couple of steps forwards._

_It was then that the smell hit her._

_It was a sour aroma- almost like rotten fruit or vegetables. When she was a child she would often take a shortcut to school through the back alleyway of a grocer's store, where the owner would dump all of the rotten produce at the end of each day, and on hot summer days it was almost unbearable. She had no idea why that smell reminded her of that, though she remembered being told by someone that a person's memory was closely linked to their sense of smell. But there was something else in the stench too- the coppery tinge of blood._

_And she heard the sounds too- the wet noise of blood splashing across hard surfaces, the slick tearing of flesh and mastication- of something feeding- no, of someone feeding. There was another noise beneath everything else, a slow, bloody gurgle as someone breathed their last. This had to be it- one of the cannibal killers, right around the corner- and they had already claimed another victim. With a deep breath, Jill swung around the corner, her handgun raised._

"_R.P.D!" she called in her most commanding tone, "freeze!" Although she quickly regretted saying anything when she saw the grisly scene before her. _

_There was a man crouched on the ground, leaning over another body- Jill couldn't see the exact details, but she could make out the dark cargo pants and boots that the figure was wearing, his feet thrashing about wildly. The tearing sounds were at their loudest now, the man's face buried into the neck of his victim. Jill let out an involuntary gasp of disgust as the stench of blood hit her at its hardest now. _

_Then there was one last tearing noise and the figure drew back, its victim falling onto the rug that sodden with blood by now. Jill gasped once more- her throat nearly closing up on itself- when she recognized Kenneth Sullivan of the S.T.A.R.S Bravo Team, blood gushing from the messy wound on his throat, his eyes nearly rolling back into his skull as his body involuntarily thrashed about as he went into shock. A few solitary spots of blood dripped down onto his face even as the color rapidly drained from his skin._

_Seeing dead bodies was one thing, but seeing another one of her colleagues dying right in front of her- that was something else altogether. Jill's confidence was draining by the second, though it was totally obliterated when the crouching man let out a drawn-out, tortuous moan and turned his head to look at her. She gasped once more as he stood up to his full height and turned towards her._

_Lightning flashed again, briefly illuminating his true, horrid appearance. He wore a once-smart green jacket over a white dress shirt along with dark slacks, but the general state of his attire made him seem like a homeless vagrant- one cuff on his jacket had been ripped away, while the lower halves of his slacks were gone too, and he was barefoot. All his clothes were smeared with a liberal amount of fresh and dried-in blood too. _

_Then Jill saw his face and her stomach lurched. His bare skin was cracked and a deathly grey colour, as though all his blood had been drained, while almost black veins snaked their way over and across his bald head like a road map. It looked as though his lips had been ripped off too, blood framing an eerie smile. Kenneth's blood, to be exact. _

_And those eyes._

_The eyes were probably the worst feature. They were an off-white colour, almost like curdled milk or faded marble, the barest hints of black pupils behind them. They seemed to be moving all over the place, trying to focus on her directly- almost as though he were viewing the world through a film that almost left him blind. And yet Jill still felt an unyielding gaze upon her as the man raised his arms in front of him and took a shaky step forwards, making a squelching sound as he stepped in Kenneth's blood. The Bravo Team member was dead by now, his thrashing having ceased not long after the man had turned towards her._

_Her police instincts returning to her, Jill finally found the necessary control to raise her Samurai Edge and aim at the gruesome man's chest. "R.P.D! Back away, now!" she commanded with as much authority as she could muster, but her tone sounded man ignored her, taking another step forwards, his mouth opening and closing in a yawning motion. More blood dripped onto the carpet at his feet. _

"_I said back off!" she repeated, the handgun shaking in her grasp now. Part of her mind wondered why Barry hadn't been drawn to her by all the noise she was making. The man ignored her still, taking another step forwards. "Get the hell away from me!" she then added, any command of the situation she may have had long gone by now._

_The man lunged forwards suddenly, letting out a strangled growl as his teeth went for her throat. She let out an involuntary scream and pulled the trigger of her Samurai Edge. _

_BAM!_

_The 9mm round hit the man in his shoulder. He let out what sounded like a surprised grunt as the force of the round turned him away. He fell against the wall and slid down a few feet without any resistance whatsoever, leaving a trail of sticky blood down the wallpaper. Jill continued to aim her handgun at the man as he started to move again. "Just stay down, bastard!" she half-yelled, "don't make me"-_

_He lurched up suddenly, swiping a hand at her. She fell back with another scream as the man's unusually-long fingernails caught a few of the fibers on the front of her Kevlar vest. Nudging up against the wall, she fired a second shot into his chest at near point-blank range. There was another puff of blood from his body and he took a step back- but otherwise he remained on his feet, trying to grope for her with his grey hands once more, despite the fact that glistening flesh and bone was on clear display to the world. _

_Jill had to get away from there, get away from this...thing that had murdered her comrade. She quickly backed away down the corridor, her hand fumbling along the wall until she found the doorknob for the door back into the dining room. She practically fell through it, yelling for Barry as she did._

"_Barry!"_

_Barry was still crouched over the blood pool in front of the fire place, though he turned quickly as Jill stumbled inside. "What is it?!" he asked as he rose to his feet, though he would have his answer soon enough as the bloody man that she had just fled stumbled into the room after her. He advanced at a steady pace, arms still outstretched, as though he had all the time in the world. And he sure did, after taking a point-blank shot to the torso. _

"_Watch out! It's a monster!" she called out. That last word seemed a little ridiculous, but she couldn't think of a more suitable word. _

_Barry's eyes nearly fell out of his skull as he took in the monster's appearance in a few brief moments within the brightly lit dining room- the tattered clothes, the graying flesh, the blood-soaked hands and mouth- before he managed to find his composure and raised his gleaming Silver Anaconda revolver to bear. "I'll take care of this!" he stated firmly, fixing his sights on the man's torso. He braced his feet before firing._

_The retort from the .44 revolver was a hell of a lot louder than Jill's 9mm, even in the spacious dining room. The bullet clearly struck the man in the centre of the sternum- close to where Jill's second round had impacted- and had a more devastating effect. There was an eruption of blood and the man took a couple of steps back, reeling from the kinetic force. But instead of his blood being liquid, it was of a thick consistency- almost like pea soup. Large chunks splattered across the floor and table. _

_But the man was advancing yet again, despite the three-inch hole now ripped through his chest, the lower half of his shirt completely sodden with blood now. Barry looked utterly shocked, as a .44 round to the chest should have been enough to put anyone on the floor in an instant. He braced himself again and fired a second shot, blowing another hunk of flesh out of the man's chest. With most of his blood splashed onto the floor and surrounding furniture- and half of his upper chest blown away- the man was still relentless in his advance. Seeing no other choice of action, Barry took the one action that was guaranteed to kill a human being- aim for the head. He elevated the revolver's trajectory a few degrees and fired one last time._

_The top half of the man's head was reduced to the consistency of pudding in an instant, his brain evaporating in a puff of pink mist. Jill let out a scream at the morbid sight, and then another as the man's body rocked forwards and finally slapped against the ground. Barry hopped back in time to avoid the falling body, as even more blood burst out from the ruptured skull, spilling across the tiles._

_And then it was silent, save for the incessant ticking from the clock and Jill's panicked breaths as she started to calm herself down. After a few more seconds, Barry crouched down beside the headless corpse._

"_What the hell was it?!" he asked in a shaken tone. Despite his many years of experience in both SWAT and S.T.A.R.S, it turned out there were things that rattled even Barry Burton. _

"_I...don't know," Jill responded finally, taking more deep breaths, "but whatever it was it...it killed Kenneth." Her mind was still processing everything that had happened in the last five minutes._

"_Kenneth's dead?" asked Barry, looking back at her in disbelief. In the midst of all that panic, she had forgotten about the dead body of her comrade in the passage next door._

"_Yes," she nodded. "Ripped his throat out."_

"_Damn," cursed Barry standing up. Jill took the time to lead him into the neighbouring passage to look at Kenneth's body, where they spent what seemed like an age just staring down at the body of their colleague. His face was now forever locked into that mask of horror, spots of blood drying on his face and the shredded remains of his yellow vest and white shirt. In the end, Barry crouched down and searched through Kenneth's pockets- though his ammo pouches and Samurai Edge were bone dry, Barry still found his brown leather wallet in one of his pants pockets. He opened it up- all there was inside was a driver's licence, his S.T.A.R.S ID Card, a bank card, and a few crumpled dollar notes. Barry tucked it into the back pocket of his own pants, and did the same with Kenneth's police badge._

"_Do you know if he had any family?" asked Jill weakly. There was a pause from Barry._

"_I think he still has a brother somewhere," he responded, "so we need to make sure all this goes back to him after this is over." Jill just nodded slackly, going through the motions. She knew dying on the job was all part of the risks of being a police officer on the front lines, but this- having your throat torn out by some crazed cannibal- how do you explain that to someone's next of kin?_

_They turned their attention to the body in the dining room now, a sticky red puddle in the rough shape of a teardrop emanating from his shattered skull. Barry hesitated somewhat as he stood over its torso, before he flipped it onto its back with a nudge from his boot. The sour stench reached up into their nostrils. "Gah!" gasped Barry, turning away, "he smells as though he's been rotting for weeks!" _

"_Well he was definitely walking around minutes ago," observed Jill, holding a hand over her nose. Barry started to rifle through the man's pockets, pulling out a blood-soaked wallet from his inside jacket pocket. He flipped it open like Kenneth's and quickly found a driver's license._

"_According to this, this poor guy used to be Nigel Grayson from the Cider District," Barry stated, holding up the plastic card showing a blad man with wire-framed spectacles, smiling gently at the two S.T.A.R.S officers. "43 years of age. We need to check this against missing persons when we get the chance, see if we can link him to the cannibal murders."_

_Jill nodded again, before she realized that Wesker hadn't come to investigate what was going on, or had tried to raise them on the radio. "Barry, didn't you hear the gunfire?"_

"_No," said Barry, shaking his head. "Some of the walls in this place look pretty thick, so they would absorb the sound pretty effectively."_

"_We need to report this to Wesker," Jill said in response, her mind still racing, unable to comment on anything else right now._

"_Yeah, of course," Barry nodded, slipping Nigel Grayson's driver's license into his pocket and tossing the man's wallet into the centre of his chest. "Lead the way." With another nod, Jill headed back towards the double doors into the main hall, Barry pacing after her. _

_If only they knew how much worse things would get that night._

* * *

><p>"It's alright," said Dean's voice suddenly, breaking Jill out of her silent reverie. "First time I saw a zombie I freaked out pretty badly too."<p>

"You did?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Oh yeah," he nodded, his voice taking on a light tone, "you see a man who's meant to be dead staggering about like nothing's wrong- half his guts hanging out like a party streamer- it makes you take a little time out- and then you see dozens of them in the streets coming after you and...you convince yourself you won't last the next hour..."

His voice trailed off and they both became quiet, staring down at the floor. All that could be heard now were grunts of exertion, the soft thwacks from boxing bags and bare feet on crash mats as the other people in the gym continued with their workouts. Theodore Finch continued glowering from the other side of the room.

"Hey, sorry for bringing that up," he said finally.

"No, it's alright," she insisted. "There's no point in trying to act like it never happened- we all have a reason for being here, after all." Dean nodded slowly, remembering what Doctor Monroe had been saying to him for so long- burying it all wouldn't help him. Here he was with people who had been through a similar situation, so they had to be going through a similar crisis to him.

"Yes we do," he agreed, taking one last swing from his water bottle. He glanced up to see Finch walking towards the gym exit now, casting another look over towards Dean before he was gone from view.

"Ready to go again?" Jill asked suddenly with a wry grin. "I've got another twenty minutes to spare."

"You're just messing with me," Dean intoned, as he rose to his feet sluggishly. "Alright then- I can't wait to see how many other ways there are that you can kick my ass."

"I'd only be too happy to show you," responded Jill in a cheeky manner as she stood up as well. "Come on, I'll show you some disarm techniques."

"I'm sure those will help," commented Dean as he stood at one end of the nearest crash mat, while Jill picked up a replica pistol from inside her bag.

"Well of course I have to demonstrate first," she then added, turning the replica around and offering the grip to Dean, who just looked down at it for a few seconds warily, and then finally took it up. "Hey, don't sweat it"- she continued- "you're having your medical exam tomorrow, so if you do end up with any broken bones we can deal with them then."

"Wonderful," he groaned.

**A/N: Surprise!**

**Bet you didn't expect me to update this story so quickly after that last chapter, right? Well, I actually started writing this before I had even finished Chapter 9, so I had two lined up so close to one another as a result. I accept this is something of a short chapter, but I'm trying to avoid writing really long chapters when I look back on some of the huge ones I did for TFOR in the past- it's easier on me to write and easier on you to read (I hope).**

**So I had another flashback scene in this chapter- a pretty long one at that, and I did change a few things from how they went in the actual Resident Evil to make it a little fresh and a bit more realistic (I'm sure that real police officers would have taken the time to check the bodies of both the zombie and Kenneth before moving on), but otherwise I hope you end up liking it. But I felt since Chris has already had a flashback sequence Jill deserved one too, and the fact that the scene in the original Resident Evil when you encounter your first zombie was a pretty special moment for the survival horror genre anyway so I **_**had **_**to include it.**

**Anyways, R&R as always please. Any feedback is appreciated.**


	11. Chapter 11: Called Up

Chapter 11: Called Up

**July 11****th****, 1028 hours**

'_By this point I'd been at this place for over three days now without being told exactly what was expected of me. I was starting to wonder if my being dragged out here was someone's idea of a very bad joke.'_

Sat on a chair outside of the facility's infirmary, Dean Travers crossed and uncrossed his feet, staring down at the carpet. Inside, he could hear a couple of muffled voices talking between themselves. He didn't see who had come in before him- they were already inside by the time he had taken his seat.

The boredom was starting to get to him- he'd been here four days now and still no word from Chris or anyone else about what he would be doing. Frankly, it was frustrating as well, as there wasn't a huge lot to do out here in the middle of nowhere to pass the time- and most of the others were avoiding him in a semi-obvious manner. He didn't know whether it was because they were just anti-social or because they were fearful of him being a survivor of Raccoon City. Like that carried some unspeakable stigma.

_I'm not insane._

He stared down at his hand. He hadn't been shaking recently, ever since he had that dream where he had locked his Doppelganger away in some secure part of his mind where it couldn't touch him ever again. He was getting better, he could almost feel it. He saw his being here as another step on the path towards getting over the experiences of Raccoon City. If that were even possible.

He heard the door open and he nearly leapt out his skin. He glanced up to see the woman that he had seen a few times before- Jayne- step out, and walk straight past him, pulling on a short leather bomber jacket as she did, not even giving him a cursory glance. If she was aware of him she was doing a good job of ignoring him, and had done since their first 'meeting'.

"Okay, you can come in now," called out a young, female voice from inside. Looking up, Dean got to his feet and stepped inside, closing the door behind him slowly. Inside, the infirmary had most of the modern trappings of any self-respecting medical room- glass cabinets filled with all kinds of medicine, antibiotics and other medical supplies, a hospital gurney, a padded foam reclined seat and a portable ECG machine (for emergencies Dean hoped). There was a window on the opposite wall from the door, giving a nice view over the field and the small lake which Dean didn't even realise was there.

"Nice, isn't it?" said the voice again, drawing his attention towards the far corner of the room. "You wouldn't know it was there unless you really took a close look round the whole building."

There was a young woman standing in front of a work bench in front of the foam seat, wearing a white doctor's coat and a pair of faded denim jeans. She was tiny- under five and a half feet tall and with a petite build to match, her short cropped hair a light shade of brown in colour, almost the same as his own. Then she turned to face him and he saw her green eyes go wide in surprise.

"Oh!" she said in a voice that was familiar. "I didn't realize that it was you, Dean."

Dean just raised his eyebrows in a similar state of surprise. "Rebecca? Didn't think I'd see you ever again. Though I've been saying that a lot recently."

"Well, you know what they say- the world's getting smaller everyday."

Once upon a time Rebecca Chambers had been the youngest recruit in the S.T.A.R.S unit in Raccoon City- only 18 and just out of college with no field or combat experience whatsoever. But practically a genius in biochemistry, her skills would be invaluable within the elite police unit. And she must have had some serious survival instincts too, considering that she was one of the only people who had survived that night in July. After that, she smartly vanished from public view, not wanting to be any part of the circus which immediately followed. Dean assumed that he would never see her again.

"Never expected to see you again," Dean said, voicing his thoughts out aloud as he sat himself down onto the padded seat, pulling off his jacket as he did. "No offence."

"None taken," Rebecca responded, standing beside him. "Shirt off, please." Dean looked up at her with a slanted grin.

"Don't waste any time do we?"

"Don't make me ask you again, Dean," she responded with a sweet tone, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. "I heard that you at least have more manners than Theodore Finch. He was something, I tell you. Wouldn't take no for an answer, so he got a face full of this." She held up a can of bug spray for emphasis. With another grin, Dean pulled off his shirt over his head, exposing his bruised and battered torso. Rebecca's eyes went wide in surprise.

"Oh God!" she exclamined, prodding at a particularly sore-looking spot on his left ribs. "What happened to you? Looks like you got into a fight with a speeding train."

"Hell if you think this is bad you should see the other guys," Dean countered, but he winced when she prodded a finger into the space between his lower ribs. "I...I had a few run-ins over the last week. Had a little spat with Finch the other day as well, you might have already heard."

"Oh we all heard," Rebecca replied, pulling up a stool to sit on while she continued her examination. "Don't worry too much- he's got a habit of rubbing everyone up the wrong way, probably because of his sparkling personality or his impeccable manners."

"I'll agree on that one," Dean nodded.

She spent the next five minutes checking him over, poking and prodding each and every bruise and cut she could find, which he had picked up over the course of a brawl with a biker gang and two separate occasions fighting for his life against Umbrella-contracted assassins. She asked him the odd question, but otherwise remained quiet. Dean could tell she was focused and didn't want to break that focus.

"Missing an incisor by the look of it," she said as she lifted up his top lip and examined where he had lost one of his teeth in that bathroom fight with the huge biker. "Does that hurt?" she then asked, prodding the space gently.

"More than you realize," Dean winced, trying his best to speak through having his top lip pinched out of place.

"Oh, sorry," she said, withdrawing her hand. "Well I can safely say that you are in pretty good shape, Mister Travers," she said after a while, "considering your love of brawling."

"Hey, I told you that I had a bad week," he replied, "I didn't ask for that shit. I'm just trying to put my life back together."

"And yet here you are," she said sharply, a slight trace of sarcasm in her tone. Dean picked up on this and glanced over, but she wasn't making eye contact. "But I can't exactly say that, considering I'm here too. We both must be touched in the head."

"No, I just realized that I could have done something more with my life," Dean countered, looking out the window. "Pretending like none of that happened wasn't going to change the past- all we can do now is try to make up for the future. What about you? Why did you come back?"

"Mark Taylor," she said simply. "He's been through so much since Raccoon. He found me, convinced me that they needed me here to help with the fight...they needed everyone they could get. Maybe I'll only be helping behind the scenes, maybe on the field directly- who knows? Better to help out wherever you can." She stopped talking to apply a pad with some cool gel against one of Dean's more serious bruises. "Here- this'll take the swelling down a little quicker. I went back, you know."

"Back where?"

"Raccoon City. I had left, but something made me come back," she explained, "and then next thing I knew I was caught up in all of that crap. But Mark helped me, they all did. We couldn't have made it out were it not for him. But he lost a lot in that city."

"We all did," Dean said solemnly. "I lost Ben- he was always looking out for me, so much that it killed him at the end. But I suppose he wouldn't have it any other- _ow!_"

His exclamation came as Rebecca suddenly jabbed a hypodermic needle into one of the main veins on his right arm. He looked down as she then pulled the plunger back, extracting a sizeable amount of his own blood. "What the hell is that for?!" he demanded.

"Sorry, but Chris and Matheson wants me to take a sample of everyone's blood," she explained.

"What for?"

"To test them, of course," she said, as though it were blatantly obvious. "First, to make sure that you are in perfect health and don't have any conditions which could affect your future performances. And second, for any special cases."

"Special cases? What is that supposed to mean?" Dean enquired, sounding a little perturbed now.

"Ask Jill," Rebecca said, refusing to meet his eyes. When he didn't respond, she sighed gently and extracted the needle. "Just... ask her. She can explain it a hell of a lot better than I can." On that note, she set the needle down on the side and motioned towards Dean's jacket. "Okay, we're done here."

"Thanks Doc," Dean said, as he began to dress himself again. "Any other comments?"

"You'll heal from what you have," she explained, pulling off her gloves. "It's lucky you didn't break any bones, but you'll live either way. For the future, if anything happens, come and see me, even if it's something as little as a stomach cramp. We need you all in peak performance."

"Will do," said Dean, hopping down from the seat. "Nice to see that everyone is so keen to keep me at peak condition. And Rebecca?"

"Yes?" she said, looking over at him directly.

"It's good to see another friendly face here."

"Likewise," she smiled. "Go on, I've got a lot more people to see today."

* * *

><p>The shooting range at the center was much like every other shooting range that Dean had been in throughout his life- concrete walls to absorb the noise, a long row of booths at the near end with paper targets that could be mounted on rails and taken back as far as you wanted, alongside steel targets in a human outline which could pop up and down as required. Seeing as how Chris or anyone else had neglected to tell him what was happening yet, Dean had started coming down here to keep his aim steady. But he wasn't here now to practice.<p>

Three people were down here currently, testing their own aim with a variety of small arms. One of them was Jill Valentine, dressed down in jogging bottoms and a light blue vest top, aiming a nickel-plated Beretta 92F with both hands. She fired down range at a paper target in a human outline, and then when her clip was expended she set the weapon down on the bench and pressed the button to bring the target to her. Taking it down from its hanging mount, she examined the holes punched through the flimsy material- several of them were grouped around the central mass, with two centred on the head, and one which had passed over the left shoulder by a couple of inches.

"Need to work on that girl," she said quietly, pushing a slender finger through the offending hole. Then as if working on some sixth sense, she glanced up towards the door.

Dean Travers stood in the doorway, raising a hand in a little wave. When she returned the gesture, he motioned for her to come over. She just shook her head and pointed towards the steel door beside her, which led into the interconnecting locker rooms. He nodded in acknowledgement, and then he was gone from view as she removed her ear protectors and set the Beretta down beside them, leaving through the door behind her afterwards.

She had just managed to sit down on one of the benches in the locker room when Dean appeared from the other end, raising his eyebrows in greeting. As she began to pull on a pale blue sleeveless hoodie, Dean appeared from the far end and approached. "Hey," he said, sitting down on the opposite bench.

"Hey yourself," she responded. "How did your medical go?"

"Well enough," he shrugged. "Rebecca says that it was lucky I didn't break any bones last week- gave me a clean bill of health otherwise, and then she took a sample of my blood, which is what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Really?" she asked, zipping up the front of her jacket.

"Said that Chris wants all of us to give a sample, for testing," he continued, "and then she went on about any 'special cases'," he continued, marking the 'special cases' in air quotations. "And I don't know about you, but that made me a little suspicious. And she said that you could explain it a lot better than she could."

Jill sighed visibly with that remark, unzipping the front of her hoodie as she did. "I really wish she would stop telling people that. She means well, but Jesus, she doesn't know when to keep certain things to herself. Among friends."

"I'm guessing this isn't the first time someone came to you like this," Dean reasoned, "and I don't want to feel like I'm betraying her in any way...but I feel I have a right to know at least. Because if this is what I think it's about- I know I was infected in Raccoon, me and Ben both, but we took the vaccine, the Daylight- that should be it. I haven't felt anything since then, and it's been three years. So what is it then?" The way Jill stared at him silently, he felt as though he might have crossed a line. Jill Valentine might have had a slight figure, but she could still break his arm in about five different places at once if she so wished.

"Okay," she said eventually, slipping off her hoodie and then rushing her thumb across the front of her right shoulder. When Dean looked at her quizzically, she explained, "It's surprising how good some foundation can hide things."

After a few motions, he could see now. A set of dark lines stretching out like blood vessels or a network of roads on a map- and then he could see they were scars, in the process of fading but still somewhat noticeable if you looked hard enough. They emanated out from a central point- a circular gash about an inch in diameter, stark against her fair skin.

"Where did...?"

"A little present from the Nemesis in Raccoon," she explained, glancing up and pulling on her jacket quickly as someone else entered the locker room, passing by without a second glance, but judging by her hurried concealment, it was something of a sore point for her. Once the other person was gone, she picked up her story again.

"I'd managed to signal a U.B.C.S escape chopper to come to the Clock Tower. I was standing there waiting for it to land when _he _appeared on the nearby roof and shot it down with his missile launcher. Just like that." She snapped her fingers for emphasis. "Then he came for me again- he reached out his right hand and next thing I knew this tendril had speared me in the shoulder. It was a miracle it didn't cripple me on the spot, but that wasn't the worst of it- I was just about able to knock the bastard out then and there, but I passed out. When I woke up, I knew I had been infected."

Dean blinked a few times, letting that remark sink in. But Jill wasn't finished yet.

"Those next sixty minutes were the worst of my entire life," she revealed, her voice a little shaky. "All I could do was lie there on that altar, not feeling _anything_. I used to think sometimes about how horrific it was becoming a zombie, but I just couldn't _feel _anything changing with me. So all I could do was just lie there and wait for the end to come. So helpless- so _fucking_ helpless..."

She raised a hand and buried her face into it. There were no tears, but Dean knew that this wasn't an easy thing for her to talk about. He reached a hand out and gingerly put it on her other hand.

"I'm sorry," he said. "What happened in the end?"

"I had a guardian angel, luckily for me," she answered. "He found me a vaccine that worked."

"Who?"

"Maybe I'll introduce you to him one day," she countered. "A little cocky, but a good man at heart. He saved my life that day- and a couple times again before that."

"Well I'll look forward to that," Dean answered.

"So you see why we take samples now," she responded, taking on a more serious tone. "even though I got the vaccine, I still had that niggle of doubt in the back of my mind, that I could have turned at any moment. So I had every test imaginable to confirm that I was clear- and Chris decided that he wanted all of us to do the same, to keep everyone at peace- he saw how much it was chewing me up on the inside. So, it was nothing personal."

"Of course," he nodded, withdrawing his hand. "Thanks- for telling me. I know it couldn't have been easy."

"Well they do say it helps to talk about things."

"Oh stop, you sound like my psychiatrist." They chuckled a little after that remark. "God knows we're all screwed up enough as it is. We can help each other."

"Amen to that," she smiled, as he began to stand up and stretch. "So what are you going to do now?"

"Going outside to stretch my legs and get some fresh air," he announced. "Rebecca showed me where the lake was. Hell, I didn't even _know _that it was there to begin with."

"Alright," she said. "Just don't go too far- we have bears and wolves out here."

"After what I've seen wolves and bears are the least of my worries," he replied with a sarcastic grin, and began to walk away. "Don't worry- I won't be going very far anyway."

"Dean?"

"Yes?" he asked, turning back. Jill was looking at him with a more serious expression now, head lowered slightly.

"You will keep this between us, right?" He smiled again.

"Of course."

* * *

><p>Shutting the large doors behind him, Dean looked around and breathed in deeply. A light breeze was forming, ruffling at his hair and clothes, but otherwise it was still warm enough outside. Somewhere close by, birds sang in the trees, while other wildlife scurried through the undergrowth at the edge of the trees. Rebecca had been right about this place being a lot more beautiful than most people realized.<p>

He tucked his hands into the pockets of his jacket, and started to trudge on through the long grass, around the side of the building towards the back side where Rebecca had told him the lake was. For the first time in a while, he was truly alone with his thoughts- and much like it had been recently, he couldn't hear his doppelganger taunting him anymore.

_Thank God..._

When he rounded the corner, he saw the lake- an expanse of sparking blue water which stretched from the boardwalk on the near side towards the very edge of the forest that surrounded the entire building. A few lone trees stood on the banks at various points around the lake edge, casing dark circles of shade, while a small clearing was on Dean's side, just before an old boardwalk that lead down to a bench at the far end, where a lone figure was standing, looking out over the water.

As though he sensed Dean standing there, he looked over his shoulder. "Oh, Dean!" called out Adrian Matheson, "glad that I managed to catch you. Come on, talk to me for a while." Dean was somewhat hesitant, but he finally relented, walking through the grass and along the boardwalk, the wood creaking beneath his shoes.

When Dean got close enough, he saw that the former CIA agent was dressed quite casually in a long-sleeved green shirt with a turtleneck, grey jeans and brown boots, a brown bomber jacket folded up and laid out on the bench beside him. He was picking up some small pebbles from a bucket beside him, turning them sideways in one hand, and throwing them out across the water to let them skim across three or four times in quick succession. Dean stood a few feet away, unsure of what to do next.

"Go on- try for yourself," said Matheson softly, pointing down at the bucket, and tossing yet another pebble, which skimmed six times and nearly cleared half of the lake's span. After a few moment's hesitation, Dean reached into the bucket and pulled out a pebble himself- a smooth, brown piece of stone that didn't look as though it came from around here.

Dean turned it sideways in his hand, and tossed it out across the lake- where it landed with a subdued 'plop' and vanished beneath the water. Dean sighed as Matheson chuckled to himself.

"Well, you can always keep trying," he said, tossing yet another pebble which skimmed across the water effortlessly. "There's more than enough for both of us."

"You know, I'd rather know when exactly I'll be given something to do," responded Dean sharply, making Matheson stop in place. "Because I've been told exactly nothing ever since I came here, and frankly, I'm sick and tired of sitting around like a spare part waiting for someone to tell me when to jump."

"I thought you might feel like that," said Matheson in response, looking over. "You prefer to do things your own way, right? Walk to the beat of your own drum? Just like when you left home instead of taking over the farm? Like that time in Raccoon City where you ignored protocol and ran into that drug den, without backup and nearly got killed as a result?"

"So you've done your homework," Dean countered, picking another pebble- a white one- out of the bucket and tossing it across the water. It fared a little better this time, skipping once before vanishing beneath the sparkling blue.

"Well I like to know a little bit about the people I'll be working with," Matheson reasoned, picking up yet another pebble, turning this one over and over in his hand repeatedly. "Trust is a very valuable commodity today."

"Funny you should say that," Dean responded, "because I don't know you at all, and therefore I don't know whether to trust you or not." Matheson was silent, and then he threw his pebble. It skimmed six times and then vanished beneath the blue within the space of a couple of seconds.

"Well, I won't blame you for that," he said, turning to look Dean straight in the eyes now. "After all, I came to Chris and the others, not the other way around- but the fact of the matter is they wouldn't have all of this nice stuff if it hadn't been for my connections," he continued, sweeping an arm around at the building behind them. "But I can also tell that you see trust as something to be earned- an admirable trait for sure. I know a thing or two about trust myself."

He tilted his head back slightly and pulled down his turtleneck down, exposing a thin, red scar line that circled the front of his throat, just over his voice box. Then he pulled the collar back up and held up his hands, palms facing Dean. There were more scars across the soft flesh, parallel to each other. Dean blinked in surprise.

"Piano wire," explained Matheson, lowering his hands. "Can take your head clean off if you're not careful. When I started with the agency years ago- on real field ops- my partner was Derrick Latimer. He was a good guy, always liked to tell jokes to ease the tension, and_ always _had my back. At least, until that day that our handler took me to one side and told me that Derrick had been turned, that he'd been selling information on secret Soviet weapon caches to the other side." He walked over towards the bench and sat down.

"I didn't want to believe it, but he made it pretty clear that I had to 'retire' Derrick when the mission was through. The op was a simple one- dropped in behind enemy lines, extract the intel, and wait for extraction. When we were waiting for extraction is when it all went to hell. Derrick was facing away from me, I had my gun on me- I could have shot him in the back then and there, ended it- but I didn't. I just remembered all those times that he had looked out for me, that trust we had built up. So I put my gun away and started to ask him about being a traitor, and turned my back. That happened to be my mistake.

"He pulled out a length of piano wire on the spot and tried to garrote me then and there. I was just about able to fight him off. Some naive part of me thought that I could talk him out of this, but it didn't matter. He kept coming at me again and again- and in the end I had to get him in a sleeper hold and break his neck. Friends and partners for two years, and he tried to kill me without a second thought. He never even said anything when he did it either."

"Why are you telling me this?" asked Dean.

"Because I want to prove a point," responded Matheson with a shrug. "Like I said, trust is a valuable commodity. I trusted Latimer with my life and he would have killed me without a second thought in response. Just because you have a degree of unspoken trust with someone else doesn't mean it goes both ways. You survived Raccoon City and Umbrella's abominations, so I trust that you are allied with the cause. You don't trust me? I can accept that- I just hope I can earn it."

"Fair enough," conceded Dean. He picked up one last pebble- a milky white one with a roughly disc-shaped appearance- and tossed it out onto the water. It skimmed three times and then vanished. Matheson chuckled to himself.

"Practice makes perfect," he observed. Dean was already turning to walk away, but Matheson spoke up again.

"We're waiting for one more person- and then we'll have something for you to do. So don't despair."

Dean smiled a little as he walked away from the boardwalk, only to see a familiar face starting to close in, flanked by a pair of unfamiliar ones. Theodore Finch was nearly grinning from ear to ear.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked with a sneer as he came up close to Dean, nearly nose-to-nose.

"Didn't realize that I needed your express permission to take a walk, Finch," countered Dean, standing his ground, aware that Finch's flunkies were standing on either side of him, sizing him up. He looked up and down at the one to his left, a meat head with cropped auburn hair. "So is your boy here going to say something or doe she just want to hump my leg?"

"Funny," said Finch sarcastically, "but let's see how funny you are when your nose is broken back into your brain. You really think that you can just do what you did the other day and then act as though nothing happened?" He balled up his fists, his two flunkies doing the same. Dean glanced back and forth quickly and rolled his eyes.

"You know, this isn't exactly helping to reinforce my impressions of you, Finch," he sighed. "If you're still being a sore loser, let me spell it out for you in a way you can understand- life isn't fair, so accept it and move on." Judging by the way his face scrunched up, Finch didn't agree. Instead he just narrowed his eyes.

"I just thought of something. Why is it that your face pisses me off so much?" he asked rhetorically. Dean decided to answer anyway.

"Maybe you're just jealous?" he suggested. Finch's eyes nearly popped out of his skull.

"You little piece of"- he began, bringing his fist back-

Then someone caught Finch by the wrist and yanked him back, nearly throwing him to the soil. As he stumbled, Dean looked around to see Matheson standing there, a serious look on his face.

"Do we really need to do this again, Theodore?" he asked, sounding bored. Teeth clenched, Finch got up and came at Matheson, swinging his first again. But the former CIA agent just casually slapped the fist away from him, and then reached forwards with his other hand, wrapping it around Finch's neck and pressing his index and middle fingers against a spot at the base of the neck. Finch let out a strangled cry and fell to one knee immediately, grasping at his neck and breathing frantically. His two flunkies stepped backwards.

"What the hell...did you...do to me?" gasped Finch in between snatched breaths.

"Pressure points," explained Matheson, brushing down his left sleeve. "There are more ways to take a man down than just punching him over and over again. Now go on- get out of my sight. And I hope you actually learn your lesson this time." With the scowl of a dog which had just been beaten to the last scrap of food by a much bigger specimen, Finch got up and walked away towards the building, his two companions hurrying after him.

"Nice work," complimented Dean once they were gone.

"Well I think you've done enough fighting recently," Matheson responded. "Save the rest of that fire for when you're out in the field proper. Now if you'll excuse me..." With that, he headed back towards the lake, no doubt to practice his pebble skimming some more. Dean gave another wry grin.

He didn't have the man's whole trust yet, but he was starting to at least like him a little more.

**A/N: Hey again guys. Sorry for the long wait again, but as I may have said in the last update for TFTN, I'm heading back to University after the summer to do a Masters course so have a lot on at the moment, but then my internet was down for a few days just recently so I got the chance to catch up seriously on my writing to some degree. With any luck I'll be updating TFTN somewhat soon, so keep an eye out if that bothers you.**

**Until next time, R&R as usual people. **


	12. Chapter 12: Panic Attack

Chapter 12: Panic Attack

**July 12****th****, 1205 hours**

'_I should never have left Riverview.'_

Dean had just made it back to his room, having come from an early lunch with Spencer and a few others, when he found a note half-slid under his door. He picked it up and unfolded it, the handwriting very neat and precise.

_When you get the chance, come down to the command room- it's time._

As soon as he saw it, he turned on his heel and made his way back through the building, passing by other people heading in the same direction. Clearly, something big was going pushed through into the command centre to find it nearly full. Chris, Jill and Matheson were there, along with Spencer, Jayne, and several others he didn't recognize. As he approached, Matheson looked over.

"Oh Dean- come on, I want to introduce you to someone." Dean came over as another man- a lean figure in his mid thirties with a youthful face and green eyes, his brown hair cut short, wearing a dark jacket over a grey t-shirt- turned to face him. "Dean, this is Michael Wilson," Matheson stated, "and he's going to be team leader for our upcoming operation. Mike, this is Dean Travers- I told you all about him, right?"

"You sure did," Wilson smiled, his voice the standard Boston burr with the blunt vowel sounds. He extended his right arm, exposing a small sickle tattoo on his wrist, and Dean extended his own to give a firm handshake. "I've heard a lot about you, Dean."

"All good things I hope," Dean replied with his own slight smile, glancing over at Matheson and the others.

"Oh, of course," laughed Wilson, releasing his hold. "I know you've been out of it for a few years, but don't worry, I'll keep you straight- I'll keep you all straight." He looked over at Spencer and Jayne, the latter folding her arms and glancing away from his sight.

"So what's your experience?" Dean then asked.

"Four years regular infantry, five years in the Navy Seals," Wilson responded without missing a beat. "Experience in counter-terrorism, hostage rescue, bomb disposal, intel extraction- at least half a dozen other things you can think of, so don't worry Dean- I know what I'm doing."

"I meant in regards to Umbrella and bioweapons," Dean countered smoothly. "What did Umbrella do to piss you off so much?"

"I had three brothers who used to be in the military like me," Wilson said quietly. "But they weren't as lucky as me- they fell on hard times, turned to mercenary work. And then at one point they all joined the U.B.C.S unit they sent into Raccoon City." The room was quiet after that, the majority of the people there knowing all too well what it was like losing someone you cared about suddenly.

"I'm sorry," Dean said.

"Don't be," countered Wilson. "It wasn't your fault. I blame those corporate bastards for creating that mess to begin with- so I'll get back at them one way or another, no matter what." There was another silence, and then the clearing of a throat as Matheson got the attention of the assembled figures.

"Okay people, now that the introductions are out of the way, let's get down to it," he announced, walking over towards a command desk and tapping away at the keyboard before him. A set of four pictures came onto the main projection screen- one each of Wilson, Dean, Spencer, and Jayne- Dean recognised the little mugshot they had taken his second day here. "You've probably worked it out already, but you four are heading out into the field later tonight once we've got everything cleared. Any concerns?"

"None from me," said Wilson smartly.

"Nope," said Spence.

"Nope," Dean intoned. Beside him, Jayne just shook her head.

"Speak up please," said Matheson. She glared up at him.

"No."

_This is going to be fun._

"Good," said Matheson, hitting a few more keys, and then the images on screen flew away, replaced with a set of satellite images showing a forested area somewhere. "Chris has been gathering most of our intel for this op so I'll let him explain the mission to you all. Chris?"

"Thanks," said Chris Redfield as he sidled past Matheson to take his place at the command desk. "Okay guys, listen closely..."

* * *

><p>'<em>The next state over, there's an old coal mine with a shaft that goes several miles down. Or, that's what it looks like to the outside. It's actually a storage facility for Umbrella equipment and B.O.W's. It had been inactive for at least a year before Raccoon City was destroyed, but recently it's seen a lot of activity- probably because the company's feeling the squeeze now with the legal battles, they're starting to open up their old facilities to try and keep up with the demand for bioweapons.<em>

'_We've see a lot of trucks coming and going from that place, and every container has the Umbrella logo on it- seems a bit of an obvious mistake to make, but maybe they're just so desperate to get this done they haven't thought about it- all the better for us. I've scoped the place out, and from what I can tell, there is the one main freight entrance through this warehouse, and I've also counted a few armed guards there. All light arms, but enough to scare some curious campers off- or even kill them if it comes to that. But there's always a back entrance._

'_And here it is- looks like a maintenance shack which leads into the main facility proper. Now of course I haven't been inside so I've no idea what to expect, but it's highly likely they've got a lot more armed guards inside, as well as the usual standard security fare- metal detectors, surveillance camera systems- but Spencer assures me that he can get us through all of that easily. So I trust that you all support him while he clears the way._

'_You'll be going in by yourselves, so no chance of any further backup. It's dangerous, for sure, but we can't risk Umbrella seeing us coming from a mile away and shutting down that facility before we can even do any damage. When you get inside, you've got two main objectives- find your way to the main data archives and download all of the research and combat data that you can find, and secondly- activate the facility's self-destruction system. I know that sounds dangerous, but Spencer had a special programme he's developed to that end to give you all enough time to escape before the big bang._

_'When you're out, call us on the emergancy band and you can call in the chopper to extract you. __It won't be easy, but I'm sure that you will all succeed. Any questions?_

* * *

><p>There were none. Instead, the quartet gathered in the large hall which used to be a gym, now converted into a makeshift armory where they could stock up on their gear before heading out. There were mainly light weapons laid out, including a variety of submachine guns and a few cut-down shotguns, clearly designed for close quarters combat. Dean picked up a UMP and unfolded the stock, checking the sights.<p>

The UMP was a steady, reliable weapon that used the .45 ACP round, giving it a lot more stopping power than Hecklar and Koch's classic MP5 series. He put it back down on the table, and looked over to where Spence was looking over the handguns. He picked up a Glock 17 and turned it over in his hands, and then practiced aiming down the sights with it.

"Good choice," said Dean aloud, getting Spence's attention. "Glocks are light, very durable- you could pour sand into it and it'll still work. Hell, they even fire underwater- which is more than you can say for a lot of other handguns." He moved around to the other side of the table, as Spence chuckled and put the gun back down.

"I've got a confession to make," he said, taking on a sheepish tone.

"Well since we're about to go into the field, it might be an idea to get it out now," Dean reasoned. Spence just sighed and closed his eyes briefly.

"I've never shot at another person before," he announced.

"Well...you wouldn't be the first one to say that," Dean nodded, "but we are going into the field Spencer. That's probably going to involve shooting at some bad guys at some point. Unless you fancy hiding in a dumpster while we go on ahead and clear the way?"

"But I've only ever shot at paper targets before," Spencer countered. "Not flesh and blood- come on, you used to be a cop. Surely you know what I'm talking about?" Dean rolled his tongue inside of his mouth for a moment before replying.

"Yeah," he said, "before Raccoon City went to shit I only used my gun twice- first time was on some low life who had taken a family hostage. If I hadn't taken the shot, he would have killed them. And the second time some asshole on angel dust tried to gut me. So yes, I shot him- and threw up afterwards- but that's the choice you have to make. It's either you, or them. And Umbrella's guys...they aren't weekend warriors.

"They're USS- Umbrella security Service. Former military, special forces- you name it. They're cold-blooded killers through and through and wouldn't hesitate to execute you on the spot if they find you," Dean continued. "I'm not trying to scare you, Spencer, but that's how it's going to be alright?"

"Alright," nodded Spencer, weakly.

"And if in doubt, just pretend they're made of paper," Dean added cheerily, moving away. Spence just nodded again, and then swallowed nervously. Opposite him, Jayne Moran picked up an MP5K and racked the bolt on it. She then looked straight at Spence, her cold blue eyes regarding him keenly.

"I certainly hope you can do it- don't see why we should all suffer because you don't have the balls to pull the trigger." Then she slammed the weapon down and walked away, underlining her point. Spencer Levinson breathed in deeply, and then exhaled slowly, his right fist balled.

Chris and Matheson watched all this from afar with folded arms, and Redfield sighed and glanced sideways at the former CIA agent. "You think they're ready for this?" he asked.

"Physically, yep," nodded Matheson, pointing. "Spence is a little lacking, otherwise they're all in almost prime physical condition, especially Jayne- I tell you, watching her train...like a machine."

"But what about psychologically?" asked Chris. Matheson stiffened up and then looked over.

"Oh. Want me to play amateur psychologist again?" he asked with a slanted grin.

"No joking around," Chris warned him, "I just hope we're not sending them off to the slaughter."

"Okay," nodded Matheson, his eyes scanning the room and then settling on Spence. "Well, Spence had never fired a gun until three days ago, and he's never killed a person before...so he might be as eager as beans and smart as a whip, but that hesitation could hold him back. With any luck the others can cover him on that."

"Hope so," said Chris. "And Jayne?" Matheson snorted and looked away.

"Jayne? Stone cold killer and borderline sociopath, even if she doesn't like to admit it," he said. "I saw the files, I saw the newspaper reports- what she did"-

"What she did before doesn't matter here," Chris interrupted. "Far as I'm concerned, those guys got what they deserved."

"Geez Chris, didn't realize you could be this cold too," Matheson laughed, looking him straight in the eye. "Doesn't matter whether you forgive her or not, she's got a lot of pent-up rage inside her and if she can't direct it properly then it might impact on the mission- and not in a good way."

"She'll learn," said Chris, watching as Jayne picked up a SIG-552 assault rifle that was almost as big as her, checking the moving parts over. "She'll have to if she wants to succeed with the group."

"Well I hope she learns fast..." said Matheson in a playful tone.

"And Dean?" was Chris' last question.

"What about him?"

"You know what I mean," Chris said, shaking his head. Matheson's initial response was a shrug.

"Well..." he began, "he's pretty composed for someone who survived a mess like Raccoon City. And he is capable enough- but I see when he goes for it in the training gym- he's full of that anger too, not like Jayne is, but pretty close. He doesn't find an outlet for that anger then he'll take it out on those around him. And that _is not _good for teamwork."

"Well what they said was true," Chris answered, shaking his head slightly.

"And what's that?"

"That you are a cynical son of a bitch." Matheson stared right at Chris, and then threw his head back and burst out laughing, turning away.

"Well CIA service can do that to you," he said.

* * *

><p>By the time that 1800 hours had rolled around, all four were out in the field. Though within an hour, Dean wished he had stayed behind.<p>

Laid out flat on a grassy ridge, they watched as a transport truck with a heavy shipping container on its back trundling down a dirt road towards a massive steel, corrugated door. A pair of armed guards in black uniforms and caps waved the truck down to check the papers, and then waved up at a lone security camera. The doors trundled open, and the truck vanished inside with the door swinging shut behind it. Also outside were a number of jeeps and other vehicles, as well as some recent tyre treads in the mud, making it clear this place was in constant, use.

Wilson lowered the high-powered scope he'd been using to observe the door, and then sidled back from the edge of the ridge. The others were laid out behind him, low in the grass, waiting for his verdict. They were tooled up for light recon work- a light Kevlar vest with standard combat pants and boots, armed with suppressed MP5-K submachine guns and Glock pistols as sidearms, along with a few flashbangs and other equipment. Dean had opted for a UMP instead though, preferring the greater stopping power- especially if the guards inside would be armored up like the Jokers at Riverview.

"Just like Chris said," Wilson whispered, "not getting in that way."

"So let's go and find that back door then," Dean suggested. "It's bound to be less guarded than this place."

"I second that," said Spence, "besides, we're losing light." Jayne remained silent as ever. If anything, the deep stripes of camo paint across her face made her look even more fierce than normal.

"Well let's go then," Wilson said, leading the way in a back-breaking crouch walk. The others broke off one by one and followed suit. Though it took them nearly ten minutes as they skirted around fences and more guard patrols- at one point, they lay on their bellies in the long grass for nearly three solid minutes as a pair of guards passed them by mere feet.

The rear entrance was a lot less impressive than the front. There was what looked like a sorry-looking gardener's shed standing at the corner of a clearing- complete with corrugated steel for a roof and a lone window- while four more guards in black uniforms and caps patrolled two and fro in pairs. The four anti-Umbrella crusaders watched for a few more minutes, memorizing their patrol patterns.

"Okay," whispered Wilson, looking over his shoulder, "we take them out, nice and quiet. We split up, take two each."

"Will that work?" hissed Spencer in reply.

"Of course," hissed Wilson back. "As long as we do it in sync so they don't get a chance to call the alarm. Knives out," he then ordered, and slowly drew the knife which was holstered at his waist, the steel dulled down with a bit of boot polish to prevent it catching light. Spence's eyes went wide.

"What, you haven't seen a knife before?" asked Jayne snidely as she drew her own blade.

"Leave it," hissed Dean, drawing his blade and holding it close beside his leg. "Yeah, I got it."

"Okay, Dean's with me- Jayne and Spencer, take those two on the left." Wilson extended his index and middle fingers towards the two guards who wandered off into the trees to the left of the shack, leaving their compatriots standing over by the shack itself.

"Move out," finished Wilson, and then he slid down the bank slowly, Dean following close after him.

"Try and keep up," said Jayne, as she led Spence off to the left. He followed after her, fumbling for his own knife.

The two guards stood on either side of the small building, looking to and fro, not paying any attention to the two camouflaged operatives coming up behind them, blades drawn and held tight in clenched fists. Wilson and Dean came up beside one another at the rear of the brick shack.

Wilson pointed at Dean and then to the right hand corner, marking his target for him. "We'll go on your mark, Dean." Dean nodded, and then crept up to the corner of the shack, and then around the corner, his back pressed up against the brick. He could see the protruding arm and shoulder of the guard on his side, arm held down by his side, fingers hovering just above his holstered pistol.

_Nice and easy._

He crept along one step at a time, always aware of where his feet were placed so he didn't stand on a twig or something else that could alert his prey. The guard barely moved, like he were some statue standing guard at a mansion entrance. Then he raised his arm and scratched his face, lowered it again. Dean took a few more steps forward until he was stood just beside the corner of the shack, inches from the guard. He raised his hand, holding the knife with the tip pointing down towards the ground.

He closed his eyes and counted down from three in his head.

_Three...two..one-_

He snapped his eyes open, reached out with his left hand, grabbed the guard by his jacket collar and pulled him around the corner and against the wall. At the exact same time Wilson came around his own corner and caught the second guard in a chokehold before he could even shout out a warning, and he too was pulled around the corner.

The guard went for his weapon, but Dean drove his knee up into the man's groin, knocking the air from his lungs. Then he pushed his head back against the wall and slashed his knife across his exposed throat. There was a spray of blood, some of it going onto Dean's face, and he stepped back. He saw the look of horror on the guard's face, saw the life drain from his green eyes. He grabbed at his savaged throat and dropped to his knees, making some horrific gagging sound as blood gushed from behind his fingers and stained the front of his black jacket. Then he fell over sideways with a thud, the rest of his blood staining the grass.

Dean looked down at his blade, then quickly wiped it clean on the guard's pants and moved around to the opposite side where Wilson was finishing off the second guard. The latter's feet kicked and twitched a few times, and then fell still. Wilson tossed the dead weight aside and looked up. "You good?"

"I'm good," said Dean, sheathing his blade.

Less than two hundred yards away, the other pair of guards were unaware of what had just transpired. They stood beneath a tree, passing roll-ups between one another. Then one of them produced a brass-plated lighter and went to light his friend's roll-up.

"Now."

A small rock sailed over the heads of the two guards and landed in the bushes several yards ahead of them. There was a loud rustle, and they both immediately turned, fumbling to drop the lighter and grab their guns instead. They aimed in the direction of the sound, looking at one another. Then they nodded and one of them set off, slowly approaching the bushes, leaving the second one to stand guard.

"All yours," whispered Jayne. Then she slid away from Spence, keeping low to the ground. She slinked away like a snake, making barely a sound. Apparently this wasn't her first rodeo, or so the saying went. After a few seconds she was completely out of sight, leaving Spence dumbfounded.

With a shake of the head, he turned his attention to the guard who had stayed behind. He drew his own knife and scuttled forwards. He kept his eyes locked on the guard's back, silently willing him to not turn around.

Yards away, the first guard crouched down in the bushes from where he had heard the rustling, brushing the brush aside to try and find the source of the disturbance. He found nothing, save for a rather out of place stone. He picked it up, turned it over a few times, his face showing a quizzical expression.

"The hell...?" he muttered, beginning to stand up.

He didn't make it very far before a slender arm wrapped around his windpipe jerking him up, and then a knife punched through the front of his uniform and through his heart. His eyes went impossibly wide, and he tried to struggle, but within a couple of seconds he was already dead, eyes rolling back into his skull as blood seeped into his black jacket and shirt.

"Sweet dreams," whispered Jayne, letting him slide to the ground.

Spence raised his knife, ready to strike the fatal blow (even though he had no idea where to aim specifically on the human body to land said fatal blow), when the guard suddenly turned around, as though it seemed to _smell _him crouched there. The eyes of both men went wide.

_Oh-_

The guard went to yell something, but then there was a wet thud and he flinched as something hit him from behind. Spencer saw the slight glint of light on a steel tip protruding from the man's throat, and then the guard fell forwards onto his face, the hilt of a combat knife protruding from the back of his neck. Spence was still staring dumbfounded at the corpse when Jayne walked up, bent down, and pulled her knife free.

She looked down at him as she wiped the blade clean against the dead man's jacket. "Uh...thanks," he finally managed to say, but she gave him a look that was somewhere between disgust and pity. Then she tapped a finger against her ear piece.

"Clear."

By the time all four were reunited, they had dragged each body into some thick bushes to conceal them, though they could do nothing about the blood stains which had soaked into the grass, except hope that nobody else would find them. They gathered around the door of the shack, their weapons readied. Dean tried the door handle, surprised to find that it was unlocked. He looked at the others and shrugged.

"When we're inside, cover each other and check your corners," Wilson advised. "All it takes is for us to miss one guy and we all go down." Dean and Spencer nodded, but Jayne remained impassive as ever. Then he opened the door and peered inside, and then filed inside. Dean followed after him, and Spencer was about to follow up, but Jayne caught him by the wrist and pulled him back.

"Next time," she whispered in his ear, "I'll just let him shoot you."

"Back off," snapped Spencer, pulling his arm away. "I'm sure even you choked at some point," he continued, and then stepped inside. Jayne just shook her head and followed him inside, where Wilson had found and opened up a large floor grate to expose a ventilation tunnel. There was little else of note inside.

"Into the rabbit hole," Dean announced, dropping down the gaping hole feet first. The others followed suit.

"_Alpha, be advised, sensors have tripped."_

* * *

><p>"<em>Copy that Alpha. All units, sound off."<em>

"_Charlie, standing by."_

"_Delta, standing by."_

"_Gamma, standing by."_

"_Solid copy on all, standing by."_

* * *

><p>There was the light groaning of steel and the ventilation grate was slowly pushed out of place, hanging down by one lone bolt so it didn't hit the ground. A pair of boots emerged from the darkness, and then Dean dropped down, landing in a crouch, sweeping his UMP to cover the passage. He saw nothing save for smooth steel walls with the occasional stretch of piping and floor grating- it reminded him too much of the passages of Delta Storage and Research back in Raccoon City.<p>

"Clear," he announced. Wilson, Spencer and Jayne dropped down behind him, one after the other.

"So far, so quiet," observed Spence as he threw his pack down on the floor and rummaged through it, while Jayne stood over him, aiming her MP5K down the passageway behind him.

"You got the gear?" asked Wilson.

"All set," replied Spencer, holding up something that looked like a flash drive with a small keypad attached to it. He held it out for Dean, who took it after a brief pause.

"What's this?" he asked.

"It's what we're going to use to destroy this place," Spence answered. "Find a workstation in this place, plug it in, and input the access code, and it'll upload a worm virus to remotely activate the self-destruct sequence. The wonders of modern technology..."

"So...what's the access code?" asked Dean curiously.

"Checkmate."

"How original," Jayne observed sarcastically.

"Play nice," warned Wilson, taking the drive from Dean's hand. "Alright, we split up again- me and Dean will find a workstation and stand by, while Spence and Jayne find the server rooms and download all the data they can find. When you do, radio us and let us know- then we can activate the self-destruct system and get the hell out of here."

"Just like that?" asked Spencer.

"In and out, just like we planned," Wilson responded. "The less time we're stuck down here, the better."

"I can agree with that," Dean nodded. "So, we good to go?"

"Good to go," said Spence, standing up. "See you soon." And with that, they headed off in separate directions. Dean watched Spence and Jayne vanish around the corner, and then looked over at the team leader.

"Worried about them?" asked Wilson.

"More worried about whether Jayne will kill him first."

* * *

><p>Jayne and Spence's passage turned out to be fairly uneventful in every sense of the word- the corridor just followed a largely straight path, with the odd right angle when it turned. They found no signage either- and while Spence was getting somewhat frustrated by the fact they could be going completely the wrong way, while Jayne liked the fact they could keep going rather than getting slowed down by unnecessary choices.<p>

"Hang on," she said suddenly, pointing up at a sign painted onto the upper part of the wall beside them. It simply read 'Archives' in white against a black background, and then further along the passage were a set of double doors. "That's our stop."

"You sure?" asked Spence.

"Unless you want to scour the rest of this place by yourself then go ahead," Jayne countered, approaching the doors. Spence hurried after her, helping her to push the heavy steel features open. They stepped inside of the cool concrete chamber, and Spence found himself caught off guard.

"Well...this was unexpected."

"What is?" asked Jayne, as he walked up to the three server banks in front of them- each stood just under nine feet tall, ringed by heat-resistant panels in black, a series of blinking lights inside. Bundles of wires and cables trailed back and forth between the towers and then into the wall-mounted control console just behind them. High above them, a large fan whirred erratically.

"Well...this is all ancient," Spence reasoned, pulling out a hand-held PDA. "I mean these servers are ten years old, at least. And that air conditioning system looks pretty ancient too," he exclaimed, walking around the towers, pointing here and there.

"And that bothers you, why?" asked Jayne, sarcastically.

"I just thought Umbrella might have had better stuff is all," he shrugged. "I mean, they spent enough on their precious B.O.W research so why not a little extra to cover their data storage needs?"

"Spence, who the hell cares? Just download the damn stuff," she spat, losing patience. With a shake of his head, Spence pulled out his small tablet computer and set it up, plugging in a set of cables into the side of the control console. He went to start typing something, but stopped, his hands hovering over the keys.

"...well that's also weird."

"What is?" she asked, losing patience again.

"There's no security on this," he said. "No firewalls, so detection programmes- nothing. I got in straight away."

"All the better for us," Jayne deadpanned, "now get it done." Spence just shook his head again and tapped a couple keys, starting the download procedure. While a long string of 1's and 0's scrolled along the black screen (to be converted into the proper files later), a progress bar was overlaid over it, counting up to 100%.

"You know..." he began, drawing another glare from Jane.

"What?" she asked sharply. He hesitated slightly before continuing.

"Don't you think this has been too easy for us?" he questioned, standing his ground. She just rolled her eyes.

"Spencer, you don't stop whining"-

"Oh for crying out loud, Jayne!" he interrupted loudly. "Why don't you pull that damn stick out of your ass and just listen for once?! This has all been _way _too easy. Aside from those guys outside, we haven't seen a single guard inside this place. I haven't seen a single security camera either, even one of those subtle blinking red lights either. And then this- these servers are ancient and have _no _security whatsoever. It's almost like they _wanted _us to just walk in and help ourselves."

Jayne stopped for once, her mind working in overtime. Not that she thought about it, she hadn't seen any security measures since they had first set foot inside- she'd just been so impatient to get out of there that she hadn't paid a lot of attention to it. But now that Spence had bought it up...it did seem far too easy.

The progress bar on Spence's tablet reached 100%. It blinked green and then closed itself, the binary code on the screen rearranging itself into a large smiley face, and a simple, ominous message.

_Found You_

"Oh God," gasped Spence, slamming the tablet shut and packing it away even as Jayne reached up and touched her ear piece.

"Guys, it's a trap, they knew we were coming," she warned, "we need to get the hell out of here"-

There was a dull thud from the wall just beside them, and then the lights suddenly flickered and went out- bathing them in the soft red glow of the emergency lights. One of the steel panels on the wall beside them dropped away. Acting on pure reflexes, Jayne raised her submachine gun and fired off a quick burst. There was a grunt of pain, and then a thud as a human body hit the ground.

"Christ!" exclaimed Spence, but he didn't get the chance to take it all in before more panels dropped away and more men appeared. They were dressed all in black so all he could see was the silhouette outlines, and the glowing red points from infra-red goggles. They raised weapons and opened fire, and he fell to the floor, narrowly avoiding having his head shot off. He fumbled for his MP5 and aimed it up, pulling the trigger repeatedly, but nothing happened- just a dull click from the weapon.

"_The hell?!" _he blurted, even as Jayne sighted and fired, knocking down one of the figures and making the other duck back from view. Then she bent down and dragged Spence to his feet, an angry growl building in the back of her throat.

"Helps if you take the safety off," she snapped, pulling him towards the doors while he sheepishly flicked the fire selector switch on his weapon. Behind them, the other panels in the server room dropped out, and more figures emerged. They could hear short, sharp bursts of static feedback as they communicated back and forth in terse bursts of communications.

"_There! Take 'em down!"_

"Not likely!" Jayne shouted back, unloading the rest of her magazine. She knocked another two of them down, just as Spence managed to get his safety off and opened fire himself. He sent a tight burst across the far wall, missing human flesh but making their aggressors duck out of sight. Then they backed away through the doors.

But even in the passage they didn't have much of a chance. The wall opposite of the entrance came away- like one of those secret doors in the old library in the old country house- and there were another three shooters standing there in a line, their weapons already raised.

"Oh"- began Spence.

The shooters opened fire. He felt a jolt through his torso as a 5.56 round struck him hard in the centre of his chest, knocking him flat on his back. The back of his skull cracked against the steel floor grating, and he was out like a light.

* * *

><p>Not too far away, Wilson and Dean had reached a space which looked like it could have been a work room at some point- there were the outlines of cubicles and desks, but any form of electronics looked to have been stripped out a long time ago- even the sockets on the walls were blackened with dirt and dust.<p>

"Looks like these haven't been used for years," Dean observed, kicking at one set of sockets. "Why bother keeping it all around though?"

"Who knows," shrugged Wilson, "just worry about the mission at hand." He walked up to a set of doors, and pushed against it with his shoulder. Then he rammed against them, but they held fast. "Locked. There has to be another way around."

"Well I saw some other doors back there," Dean suggested with a shrug of his shoulders. "Could try those"- he was interrupted by a sudden buzzing in his ear- in both their ears, as it happened. He pressed his fingertip against it, listening in.

"...a tra...w we were...need to get...ll out of"-

"Damn it, there's too much interference down here," Wilson grumbled, messing with the radio unit at his waist, but Dean just stood in place. All of this just seemed a little too...convenient for his liking. In fact, it reminded him a little too much of that ambush in the old warehouse.

"Shit! We have to get out, now!" he exclaimed, flicking off the safety on his UMP.

"What are you talking about?" asked Wilson, looking a little flustered.

"I- when Umbrella tried to kill me the other week, they lured me into an ambush," Dean explained, "they had a jammer activated so that I wouldn't call for help, and then next thing I knew they were coming out of the shadows trying to gun me down. Trust me, this has the exact same feeling to it." Wilson just stared back, the cogs in his mind clearly working over and over on themselves. Then his eyes went wide.

"_Get"-_

Dean threw himself to the side instinctively, just as something whistled past his ear and flattened itself against one of the steel wall panels. Still on the ground, he rolled over and opened fire on reflex at the figure that hadn't been standing there in the doorway a couple of seconds ago. The figure buckled and thrashed, then fell over flat on his face, the thermal goggles he was wearing shattered by the fall.

About the same time, the lights went out. The red emergency lights then chose to bath the space in a sinister red glow.

"_Ambush right!" _called out Wilson, spinning in that direction, his MP5 raised. He fired off a long burst, and two more silhouettes went tumbling down. It seemed that the walls appeared to have disappeared when they didn't realize, changing the entire layout of the facility's corridors in an instant. And now Umbrella's stone-cold killers were bearing down on them.

There was another one suddenly hovering over Dean, trying to ram the stock of his rifle into his face, but Dean dodged out of the way, then grabbed onto the guy's boot and yanked, pulling him off of his feet. Then he scrambled up and kicked the commando across the face, knocking him out. Two more were directly ahead of him and he fired from the hip, catching one of them in the pelvis and spinning him aside, but the second one darted sideways into one of the cubicles- then burst out and came straight at him.

_Holy-_

Then a bullet struck the assaulter in the side of the head and he was pitched sideways into the wall, crumpling into a heap. Dean glanced over to where Wilson was crouched, MP5 raised. He just nodded his head slightly, a gesture that Dean returned. But then he saw the two commandos coming up behind Wilson.

"_Behind you!" _he shouted, rushing forwards. Wilson turned in time for the butt of a rifle to catch him in the cheek, and he stumbled away, falling against the wall. The commando tried to attack again, but Wilson kicked him in the side of the kneecap and he went down, then drew his knife and slashed him across the throat. By the time he was falling back, Dean had caught up and slammed shoulder-first into the second commando.

They both impacted against the wall and bounced off. The commando dropped his assault rifle as he did, but he just kicked Dean right in the sternum and pushed him backwards, drawing his knife. But Dean already had his UMP up and drilled his opponent right in the chest, dropping him like a sack of sand. Then he quickly turned and tried to fire again, but the weapon just let out a dry click. He looked down, saw the brass jammed into the exit chamber.

He threw it down, there being no time for him to try and unjam it in this situation. He reached for the Glock instead, turning and dropping to one knee as he gunned down another commando who was trying to sneak up on him. A few yards away, Wilson was on his feet as yet another commando attacked him head on. He batted away a punch and buried his knife right through the commando's armpit, in between the Kevlar plates of his armor. The man shuddered briefly, and then collapsed as the squad leader pulled the knife out. Then without skipping a beat, he turned and tossed the knife- the point planted itself through the right eye of a commando armed with a cut-down shotgun.

_That guy's got the moves._

Wilson used his foot to nudge his MP5 into the air, and then snatched it up once it was at chest height. He pulled the bolt back and turned, firing off the rest of his magazine. The remaining commandos ducked out of sight, covering themselves behind the walls. _"We need to get out of here, now!" _

"_Don't have to tell me twice!" _Dean hollered back, firing off a few shots from his Glock. Then he crouched down and snatched up the UMP, running with it towards the passage they had used to come this far. Wilson fired off the rest of his magazine and then followed afterwards, the air interlaced with bursts of comm traffic from the remaining commandos.

"_They're falling back!"_

"_Cut them off!"_

Dean probably should have been paying more attention to that traffic, as he looked over his shoulder briefly to see if Wilson was following him. It meant that he didn't see the commandos waiting to ambush him until it was too late- when he turned back around, an outstretched arm knocked him off of his feet. The Glock went one way, the UMP the other, and he hit the concrete hard.

He didn't get a chance to nurse himself though, as a boot kicked him in the ribs, rolling him over, and then a gloved fist punched into his jaw. Three commandos- armed only with their fists- gathered around him, landing punches and kicks as he rolled on the cold floor. They shouted and screamed at him as they did.

"That was for our buddies at Riverview, asshole!"

"You're not so big down there, are you?!" bellowed the second one, grabbing Dean by the front of his Kevlar and pulling him up to face level. All Dean saw was a pair of blue eyes behind the black mask. He smirked and laughed, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth.

"You think this is funny?!" demanded the third man, punching Dean across the face a couple more times. "It won't be so funny when you're drowning in your own blood!" he added, landing a third punch that rolled Dean onto his front.

"You got anything else to say?!" demanded the other commando.

"F..._fuck you!_" Dean managed to yell, before he rolled over and kicked one of them squarely in the groin. He barked out and fell back, clutching at his privates. Dean managed a smirk, before another punch to the jaw nearly knocked him out cold.

"Fuck it, grab the needle!" shouted the one standing over Dean's upper body, grabbing a hold of his shoulders, while the second withdrew a hypodermic needle from one of the pouches on the front of his vest. Whatever it was, it must have been pretty strong stuff based on the warnings the other commando was shouting at him. The third one remained curled up on the floor, coughing and retching as he held his groin.

The second man leaned in, his thumb hovering over the needle plunger. Dean- not in any mood to be injected with any mystery drug- lashed out with his feet again. He caught the needle man in the kneecap, and he stumbled forwards to fall on top of him. Dean jerked his head sideways, and the needle struck the concrete beside his ear, snapping off on contact.

Dean could feel that hot anger boiling up inside him again. Without a second thought, he snatched the needle from the commando's hand and thrust it backwards over his shoulder. There was a soft _thunk _as it made contact with flesh, and then a scream of agony as the commando pinning him down let go. Released, Dean grabbed onto the collar of the first commando and hauled himself up, before ramming his head into the commando's masked face, and then swung him around into the wall face-first. He fell down with a thud, and Dean turned to the second man.

He was still screaming, clutching at the broken needle stabbed into the spot just above his collar bone. Blood spurted from the wound, but after a few moments his screams were dying away and his motions were becoming sloppy, like he were in a dream haze- the drug was clearly some kind of sedative. Unrelenting, Dean stepped up and prepared to lay him out with a haymaker punch-

-when another commando came up and swung a crowbar into the back of his kneecaps.

Dean went down in an instant, to his knees, screaming. He tried to rise up immediately afterwards, but the crowbar was swung again- this time into the back of his head, and the force of the blow knocked him down fully. He rolled over onto his back, his head tilted sideways to show him the open passage he had just ran down. There was no sign of Wilson. The back of his head was wet and sticky, his vision half-blurred.

_This is it, _he thought. _My first time outside of the base and I'm laid out, half-dead. I fully fucked up on this one, I should never have left the farm, I should never have left mom and dad...Lisa-_

"Fucking hell Hotch, he did a number on you," sneered a commando standing over him, clutching the crowbar he had just used.

"Whatever, we got him now," growled Hotch, getting to his feet and raising a hand to his ear. "Be advised, we have them- repeat, we have the intruders."

His eyes managed to glance up enough to see another commando approaching in purposeful strides, this one wearing a somewhat more streamlined Kevlar vest that wasn't overloaded with extra supplies and weapons, the sleeves on his shirt rolled up past the elbows. He walked right up to Dean and looked down.

"Night night," he said, driving his boot into Dean's face.

**A/N: And we are back. First of all, for any of my regulars who are reading this then I apologize for the lateness of my next update, as I have returned back to university to do a postgraduate degree so my diary is very full right now as you can imagine, but I will endeavor to continue writing as and when I'm able to. **

**The next few chapters...I've had quite a lot written out, and it's just a case of piecing it all together into legible chapters- we should have another five or six chapters to go for this story in total, and by then I should have an idea on where to take the saga of Dean Travers next. Watch this space...**

**As an aside, Happy New Year to everyone on the site! If you are new to Fanfiction and are just reading this, I'm James- aka Jammer69er- and I have written a few Resident Evil fanfics for this site since 2005 (has it been that long?) as well as some Dead Space pieces of work, so if you are interested then have a read, leave a review and some feedback, or even favorite it if you're so inclined. **

**Until next time folks. **


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